4RLF 


2kb    fill 


x*3B 

If  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
V  OF 

X°AUFO 


GRADED 

MEMORY 

SELECTIONS 

If 


^CLASSICS, 


Educational  Publishing  Co.,  50  Bromfleld  St.,  Boston 
N*w  York  Chicago  San  Franc i»c« 


jf  SHAKESPEARE  Paper 

^  MACBETH. 

J  ^  With  notes,  by  H.  C.  NORTCUTT,  B.A  ,  London      .10        .»5 

TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

'•  ^  With  notes,  by  E.  LEE,  Lecturer  of  English  Lit.       10        .95 

HENRY  VIII. 

With  notes,  by  G.  H.   ELY,  B.A.,  London       .        .10        .»$ 

A  THE  TEMPEST. 

With  notes,  by  E.  LEK,  Lecturer  on  English  Lit.    .10        .15 

KING  RICHARD  II. 

With  notes,  by  W  BARRY,  B  A.,     .        .         .        .10        .*$ 

As  You  LIKE  IT. 

With  notes,  by  LIONEL   W.    LYDE,   M.  A.,       .         .19        .115 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

With  notes,  by  GEO.  H.  ELY.,  B.A.        .        .        .10        .*s 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

With  notes  by  W.  F.  BAUGUST  .        .        .so        .ajt 

JULIUS   CAESAR. 

With  notes,  by  WALTER  DENT BO        j»j 

CYMBELINE. 

With    notes,  by  W.  F.  BAUGUST.      .         .  .10        .ftg 

KING  JOHN. 

With  notes,  by  F.  E.  WEBB,  B.  A.    .  .        .10        .*f 

HAMLET. 

With  notes,  by  LIONEL  W.  LYDK,  A.  M.  .        .        .1C        .•§ 
CORIOLANUS. 

With  notes,  by  WALTER  DENT          .        .        ,        ,u»        M$ 

KING  HENRY  V. 

With  notes  by  W.  BARRY,  B.  A.        .        .        .        .!•        .»J 

KING  LEAR i«      ^y 

MACAULAY 

MACAULAY'S  ESSAY  ON  MILTON. 

With  introduction  and  notes,  by  M.  A.  EATON         .M>        2eg 

MACAULAY'S  ESSAY  ON  ADDISON. 

With  introduction  and  notes,  by  M.  A.  BATON        .M        .•§ 

FRANCIS  BACON. 

With  introduction  by  Prof.  H.  MORLEY     .         .         .SO        .99 

WARREN  HAST^GS. 

With  introduction  by  Prof.  H.  MORLBV  .        .10        .flg 

LAYS  OF  ANCIENT  ROME. 

With  notes  by  DONALD  G.  MITCHELL      ..        .        .M        .•$ 
IRVING 

HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK.    Vol.  I.  .       .      .      elo      .g* 
Vol.  II.        .      .      .10      . 


GRADED 


Selections 


ARRANGED   BY 

S.  D.  WATERMAN, 

Superintendent  of  Schools,  Berkeley,  Col. 

J.  W.  McCLYMONDS, 

Superintendent  of  Schools,   Oakland,   LA 

C.  C.  HUGHES, 

Superintendent  of  Schools,  Alameda,  CaU 


EDUCATIONAL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

BOSTON 
NEW  YORK        CHICAGO     -  SAN  FRANCISCO 


COPYRIGHTED 
BY  EDUCATIONAL  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

1903. 


GIFT 


PAI& 

M4 


O 


EDIKX 

UBRARY 


PREFACE. 


It  is  unfortunately  true  that  the  terms  education  and 
culture  are  not  synonymous.  Too  often  we  find  that 
the  children  in  our  public  schools,  while  possessed  of 
the  one,  are  signally  lacking  in  the  other.  This  is  a 
state  of  things  that  cannot  be  remedied  by  teaching 
mere  facts.  The  Greeks,  many  years  ago,  found  the 
true  method  of  imparting  the  latter  grace  and  we  shall 
probably  not  be  able  to  discover  a  better  one  to-day. 
Their  youths  learned  Homer  and  the  other  great  poets 
as  a  part  of  their  daily  tasks,  and  by  thus  constantly 
dwelling  upon  and  storing  in  their  minds  the  noblest 
and  most  beautifully  expressed  thought  in  their  litera- 
ture, their  own  mental  life  became  at  once  refined  and 
strong. 

The  basis  of  all  culture  lies  in  a  pure  and  elevated 
moral  nature,  and  so  noted  an  authority  as  President 
Eliot,  of  Harvard  University,  has  said  that  the  short 
memory  gems  which  he  learned  as  a  boy  in  school,  have 
done  him  more  good  in  the  hour  of  temptation  than  all 
the  sermons  he  ever  heard  preached.  A  fine  thought 
or  beautiful  image,  once  stored  in  the  mind,  even  if  at 
first  it  is  received  indifferently  and  with  little  under- 
standing, is  bound  to  recur  again  and  again,  and  its 
companionship  will  have  a  sure,  if  unconscious,  influ- 
ence. The  mind  that  has  been  filled  in  youth  with 
many  such  thoughts  and  images  will  surely  bear  fruit 
in  fine  and  gracious  actions. 

To  the  teachers  who  are  persuaded  of  this  truth,  the 
present  collection  of  poems  has  much  to  recommend  it. 


M787569 


4  PREFACE. 

The  selections  have  been  chosen  both  for  their 
moral  influence  and  for  their  permanent  value  as  litera- 
ture. They  have  been  carefully  graded  to  suit  the 
needs  of  every  class  from  the  primary  to  the  high 
school.  Either  the  whole  poem  or  a  sufficiently  long 
quotation  has  been  inserted  to  give  the  child  a  com- 
plete mental  picture. 

The  teacher  will  thus  escape  the  difficulty  of  choosing 
among  a  too  great  abundance  of  riches,  or  the  still 
greater  one  of  finding  for  herself,  with  few  resources, 
what  serves  her  purpose.  This  volume  has  a  further 
advantage  over  other  books  of  selections.  It  is  so 
moderate  in  price  that  it  will  be  possible  to  place  it  in 
the  hands  of  the  children  themselves. 

The  compilers  desire  to  thank  Messrs.  Honghton, 
Miffiin  &  Co.,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Bo  wen,  Merrill 
&  Co.,  Whittaker  &  Ray  Co.,  and  Doubleday  &  McClure 
Co.,  for  their  kindness  in  permitting  the  use  of  copy- 
righted material. 

S.  D.  WATERMAN. 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST  GRADE.  PAGE 

The  Baby     ........  George  Macdonald  7 

The  Little  Plant Anon.      ....  8 

Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep E.  Prentiss  ...  9 

One,  Two,  Three Margaret  Johnson  (J 

Three  Little  Bugs  in  a  Basket    .  Alice  Gary  ...  10 

Whenever  a  Little  Child  is  Born  Agnes  L.  Carter    .  11 

Sweet  and  Low Alfred  Tennyson  .  12 

The  Ferry  for  Shadowtown  .     .  Anon 13 

My  Shadow It.  L.  Stevenson    .  14 

Quite  Like  a  Stocking   ....  Anon 15 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat    .     .  Edward  Lear    .     .  16 

Forget-me-not Anon 17 

Who  Stole  the  Bird's  Nest  ?    .     .Anon 18 

Two  Little  Hands     .<,..,  Anon 20 

The  Dandelion Anon 21 

A  Million  Little  Diamonds      .     .  M.  Butts       ...  21 

Daisy  Nurses Anon 22 

At  Little  Virgil's  Window      .     .  Edwin  Markham  .  23 

Dandelions Anon 23 

Memory  Gems Selected  .     ...  24 

SECOND    GRADE. 

Seven  Times  One Jean  Ingeloiv    .     .  25 

Christmas  Eve Anon ?t\ 

Morning  Song Alfred  Tenny*<>>    .  2; 

Snppose,  My  Little  Lady    .     .     .  Phoebe  Cary      .     . 

The  Day's  Eye      ......  Anon 

The  Night  Wind Eugene.  Field    .     . 

The  Blue-bird's  Song     ....  Anon.      .     .     ,     - 


CONTENTS. 

o     o     .     .     o     .     .     .  Anon 32 

Autumn  Leaves    .     e     ,     .     .     .  Anon 33 

If  I  Were  a  Sunbeam    .     „     .     .  Lucy  Larcom    .     .  34 

Meadow  Talk  0 Caroline  Leslie     .  35 

The  Old  Love  „ Charles  Kingsley  .  36 

Bed  in  Summer E.  L.  Stevenson     .  36 

Three  Companions Dinah  M.  Craik    ;  37 

The  Wind E.  L.  Stevenson    .  38 

The  Minuet Mary  Mapes  Dodge  39 

Wynkeu,  Blynken  and  Nod    .     .  Eugene  Field    .     .  40 

Pretty  Is  That  Pretty  Does    .     .  Alice  Gary  ...  42 

Lullaby J.  G.  Holland  .     .  43 

THIRD   GRADE. 

Discontent Sarah  0.  Jewett   .  45 

Our  Flag Anon 46 

Song  from  u  Pippa  Passes  "  .     .  Robert  Browning  .  47 

Little  Brown  Hands      ....  M.  H.  Krout    .     .  48 

Winter  and  Summer      ...     .  Anon 45) 

The  Brook Alfred  Tennyson  .  50 

The  Wonderful  World       .     .     .   W.  B.  Hands    .     .  52 

Don't  Give  Up Phoebe  Gary      .     .  53 

We  Are  Seven Wordsworth      .     .  54 

The  Land  of  Counterpane      .     .  E.  L.  Stevenson    .  57 

The  Brown  Thrush Lucy  Larcom    .     .  58 

The  Silver  Boat Anon 59 

The  Dandelion Anon 60 

Afternoon  in  February       .     .     .  Longfellow  ...  01 

Nikolina Celia  Thaxter  .     .  G2 

Lost Celia  Thaxter  .     .  63 

Robin  or  I? Sarah  E.  Sprague  65 

FOURTH   GRADE. 

Psalm  XXIII Bible 67 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel  .  Ralph  TJr.  Emerson  68 


CONTENTS.  5 

Abou  Ben  Adhei  i Leigh  JTnnt       .     .  69 

Bugle  Song Alfred  Tennyson  .  70 

Little  Boy  Blue Eugene  Field    .     .  71 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  ....  Eugene  Field    .     .  72 

Red  Riding  Hood Whittier  ....  75 

The  Sandpiper  and  I     ....  Gelid  Thaxter  .     .  77 

In  School  Days Whittier  ....  78 

Take  Care Alice  Gary  ...  80 

A  Life  Lesson       ......  James  W.  Riley    .  82 

FIFTH  GRADE. 

The  Village  Blacksmith     .     .     .  Longfellow  .     .     .  83 

Love  of  Country Scott 85 

The  Daffodils Wordsworth      .     .  8t> 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God     .     .  Mrs.  Browning      .  87 

From  My  Arm-chair      ....  Longfellow  ...  88 

A  Song  of  Easter Celia  Thaxter  .     .  90 

The  Joy  of  the  Hills      ....  Edwin  Markham  .  92 

In  Blossom  Time Ina  Coolbrith   .     .  93 

The  Stars  and  the  Flowers     .     .  Longfellow  ...  95 

Meadow  Larks Ina  Coolbrith   .     .  98 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song  .     .     .  Longfellow  ...  99 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz  Longfellow  ...  100 

SIXTH  GRADE. 

Break,  Break,  Break      ....  Alfred  Tennyson  .  L03 

Columbus — Westward  ....  Joaquin  Miller  .  104 

The  Day  is  Done Longfellow  .     .  .106 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims      .  Mrs.  Hemans    .  .108 

He  Prayeth  Best Coleridge      .     .  .1.9 

Each  and  All Emerson       .     .  .110 

Paul  Re vere's  Ride Longfellow  .     .  .112 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic      .  Julia  Ward  Howe  116 

The  Barefoot  Boy Whittier  .     .     .  .118 

Lincoln,  the  Great  Commoner     .  Edwin  Markham  .  120 


6  CONTENTS. 

Opportunity Edward  E.  Sill    .  122 

A  Song James  W.  Eiley    .  123 

To  a  Friend Halleck  ....  124 

SEVENTH  GRADE. 
Psalm  CXXI Bible 125 

Rain  in  Summer Longfellow  .     .     .126 

A  Psalm  of  Life Longfellow  ...  130 

Hymn  on  the  Fight  at  Concord  .  E.  W.  Emerson    .  131 

To  a  Water-fowl William  C.Bryant  132 

The  Heritage James  E.  Lowell  .  134 

Elegy    Written    in    a    Country 

Churchyard Thomas  Gray   .     .  136 

Gradatim J.  G.  Holland  .     .  143 

God  Save  the  Flag 0.  W.  Holmes  .     .  145 

Life Edward  E.  Sill     .  146 

EIGHTH   GRADE. 

Hymn  to  the  Night Longfellow  .     .     .147 

The  Builders    . Longfellow  .     .     .148 

Polonius'  Advice  to  Laertes   .     .  Shakespeare  -  .     .150 

Thanatopsis W.  C.  Bryant  .     .151 

The  American  Flag Jos.  E.  Drake  .     .  155 

Speech  at  the  Dedication  of  the 
National  Cemetery  at  Get- 
tysburg   o  Abraham  Lincoln  157 

To  a  Skylark    „ Shelley    ....  159 

The  Launching  of  the  Ship    .     .  Longfellow  .     .     .  164 

Recessional Eudyard  Kipling  .  166 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine      .  Longfellow  .     .     .  168 
The  Chambered  Nautilus -.     .     .   0.  W.  Holmes  .     ,   170 


Brief  Memory  Gems  and  Proverbs 173 


GRADED 

MEMORY  SELECTIONS 

FIRST  GRADE 


THE  BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Oat  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 
Where  did  you  get  you"  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  throuh. 


What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and 

spin  ? 

Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 
Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your    forehead  so  smooth    and 

high? 

A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 
What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm,  white 

I  saw  something  better  than  any  one  knows, 


8  MEMORY     SELECTION-. 

Whence  that  three-corner'd  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 
Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 
Feet,    whence    did    you    come,    you    darling 

things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  just  to  be  you? 
God  thought  of  me  and  so  I  grew. 
But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  of  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

—  George  Macdonald. 

THE  LITTLE  PLANT. 

In  the  heart  of  a  seed,  buried  deep,  so  deep, 

A  dear  little  plant  lay  fast  asleep. 

"Wake/    said  the    sunshine,  r' and,  creep  to 

the  light." 
'fWake,r    said    the  voice    of  the   rain-drops 

bright. 

The  little  plant  heard  and  rose  to  see 
What  the  wonderful  outside  world  might  be. 

— Anon. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

P 

SLEEP,  BABY,  SLEEP! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Thy  father  watches  his  sheep  ; 
Thy  mother  is  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  comes  a  little  dream  on  thee. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

The  large  stars  are  the  sheep ; 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess ; 
And  the  gentle  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Our  Saviour  loves  His  sheep  ; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high, 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

— E.  Prentiss  (from  the  German') . 

ONE,    TWO,    THREE. 

One,  two,  three,  a  bonny  boat  I  see, 
A  silver  boat  and  all  afloat  upon  a  rosv  sea. 
One,  two,  three,  the  riddle  tell  to  me. 
The  moon  afloat  is  the  bonny  boat,  the  sun 
set  is  the  sea. 

—  Margaret  Johnson. 


10     •  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THREE  LITTLE  BUGS   IX  A  BASKET. 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  room  for  two  ; 
And  one  was  yellow,  and  one  was  black, 

And  one  like  me  or  you  •, 
The  space  was  small,  no  doubt,  for  all, 

So  what  should  the  three  bugs  do? 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  crumbs  for  two  ; 
And  all  were  selfish  in  their  heart-, 

The  same  as  I  or  you. 
So  the  strong  one  said,  "We  will  eat  the  bread, 

And  that's  what  we  will  do  ! " 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  the  beds  but  two  could  hold ; 

And  so  they  fell  to  quarreling  — 

The  white,  the  black,  and  the  gold  — 

And  two  of  the  bugs  got  under  the  rugs, 
And  one  was  out  in  the  cold. 

He  that  was  left  in  the  basket, 

Without  a  crumb  to  chew, 
Or  a  thread  to  wrap  himself  withal, 

When  the  wind  across  him  blew, 
Pulled  one  of  the  rugs  from  one  of  the  bugs, 

And  so  the  quarrel  grew. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  l\ 

So  there  was  war  in  the  basket ; 

Ah  !  pity  'tis,  'tis  true  ! 
But  he  that  was  frozen  and  starved,  at  last 

A  strength  from  his  weakness  drew, 
And  pulled  the  rugs  from  both  the  bugs, 

And  killed  and  ate  them,  too  ! 

Now  when  bugs  live  in  a  basket, 
Though  more  than  it  well  can  hold, 

It  seems  to  me  they  had  better  agree  — 
The  black,  the  white,  and  the  gold  — 

And  share  what  comes  of  beds  and  crumbs, 
And  leave  no  bug  in  the  cold. 

— Alice  Cory. 

WHENEVER  A  LITTLE  CHILD  IS 
BORN. 

Whenever  a  little  child  is  born, 

All  night  a  soft  wind  rocks  the  corn, 

One  more  butter-cup  wakes  to  the  morn, 

Somewhere. 

One  more  rose-bud  shy  will  unfold, 
One  more  grass-blade  push  through  the  mould, 
One  more  bird's' song  the  air  will  hold, 

Somewhere , 

— Aqnes  L.  Carter. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 


SWEET  AND  LOW. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west, 

Under  the  silver  moon  ; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

— Alfred  Tennyson. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  13 


THE  FERRY  FOR  SHADOWTOWN. 

Sway  to  and  fro  in  the  twilight  gray ; 

This  is  the  ferry  for  Shadowtown ; 
It  always  sails  at  the  end  of  the  day, 

Just  as  the  darkness  closes  down. 

Rest  little  head,  on  my  shoulder,  so ; 

A  sleepy  kiss  is  the  only  fare ; 
Drifting  away  from  the  world,  we  go, 

Baby  and  I  in  the  rocking-chair. 

See  where  the  fire-logs  glow  and  spark, 
Glitter  the  lights  of  the  shadowland, 

The  raining  drops  on  the  window,  hark! 
Are  ripples  lapping  upon  its  strand. 

There,  where  the  mirror  is  glancing  dim, 
A  lake  lies  shimmering,  cool  and  still. 

Blossoms  are  waving  above  its  brim, 
Those  over  there  on  the  window-sill. 

Rock  slow,  more  slow  in  the  dusky  light, 
Silently  lower  the  anchor  down  : 

Dear  little  passenger,  say  "  Good-night.'' 
We've  reached  the  harbor  of  Shadowtown. 

— Anon. 


14  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

MY   SHADOW. 

I  have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out 

with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more  than 

I  can  see. 
He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up 

'    to  the  head  ; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me  when  I  jump 

into  my  bed. 

The  funniest  thing  about  him  is  the  way  he 

likes  to  grow  — 
Not   at   all    like    proper   children,   which   is 

always  very  slow ; 
For  he  sometimes  shoots  up  taller  like  an 

India-rubber  ball, 
And  he  sometimes  gets  so  little  that  there's 

none  of  him  at  all. 

He  hasn't  got  a  notion  of  how  children  ought 

to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every 

sort  of  way. 
He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he's  a  coward, 

you  can  see ; 
I'd  think   shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that 

shadow  sticks  to  me  ! 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  15 

One    morning,    very    early,   before    the    sun 

was  up, 
I  rose  and  found  the  shining  dew  on  every 

buttercup ; 
But    my    lazy  little   shadow,   like  an   arrant 

sleepy-head, 
Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was  fast 

asleep  in  bed. 

—  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

QUITE  LIKE  A  STOCKING. 

Just  as  morn  was  fading  amid  her  misty  rings, 

And  every  stocking  was  stuffed  with  child- 
hood's precious  things, 

Old  Kris  Kringle  looked  round  and  saw  on 
the  elm  tree  bough 

High  hung,  an  oriole's  nest,  lonely  and  empty 
now. 

"Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed,  "hung 

up  there  in  the  tree, 
I  didn't    suppose  the  birds  expected  a  visit 

from  me." 
Then  old  Kris  Kringle  who  loves  a  joke  as 

well  as  the  best, 
Dropped    a    handful  of   snowflakes    into  the 

oriole's  empty  nesto 

— Anon. 


16  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE    OWL   AND   THE    PUSSY-CAT. 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat ; 
•They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five -pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  moon  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"O  lovely  Pussy  !  O  Pussy,  my  love  ! 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are  — 
You  are, 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are  !  " 

Pussy  said  to  the  owl,  frYou  elegant  fowl ! 

How  wonderfully  sweet  you  sing  ! 
Oh,  let   us  be   married  —  too   long   we   have 
tarried  — 

But  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring?" 
They  sailed  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 

To  the  land  where  the  Bong-tree  grows, 
And  there  in  a  wood,  a  piggy- wig  stood 

With  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose  — 
His  nose, 

With  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose. 

"Dear  Pig,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one 

shilling 
Your  ring?"  Said  the  piggy,  "I  will." 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  17 

So    they   took    it    away,    and    were    married 

next  day 

By  the  turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
They  dined  upon  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 

Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon, 
And  hand  in  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  sand 
They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon  — 

The  moon, 

They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

— Edward  Lear. 


FORGET-ME-NOT. 

When  to  the  flowers  so  beautiful  the  Father 

gave  a  name 
Back  came  a  little  blue-eyed  one,  all  timidly 

it  came  ; 
4nd.  standing  at  the  Father's  feet  and  gazing 

in  His  face 
ft  said,  in  low  and  trembling  tones  and  with 

a  modest  grace, 
'Dear  God,  the  name  Thou  gavest  me,  alas, 

I  have  forgot." 
The    Father    kindly    looked    Him  down   and 

said,  "Forget-me-not." 

— Anon. 


18  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

WHO    STOLE    THE    BIRD'S    NEST, 

"  To-whit !  To-whit !  To-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  moo-oo  ! 

Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do. 

I  gave  you  a  wisp  of  hay, 

But  I  did  not  take  your  nest  away  : 

Not  I,"  said  the  cow,  "  moo-oo  ! 

Such  a  thing  I'd  never  do." 

"Bob-o-link!  Bob-o-link  I 
Now,  what  do  you.  think? 
AVI  10  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum  tree  to-day?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "bow-wow  ! 

I  wouldn't  be  so  mean,  I  vow. 

I  gave  some  hairs  the  nest  to  make, 

But  the  nest  I  did  not  take. 

Not  I,"  said  the  dog,  "bow-wow  ! 

I  wouldn't  be  so  mean,  I  vow." 

"  Coo-oo  !  Coo-coo  !  Coo-coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word  or  two  : 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest, 
From  little  Yellow-breast  ?  " 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  19 

"Not  I,"  said  the  sheep;  ff  oh,  no, 
I  would  not  treat  a  poor  bird  so  ; 
I  gave  wool  the  nest  to  line, 
But  the  nest  was  none  of  mine. 
Baa  !  Baa  !  "  said  the  sheep  ;  ff~  oh  no  ; 
I  wouldn't  treat  a  poor  bird  so." 

"  Caw  !  Caw  !  "  cried  the  crow, 
"  I  should  like  to  know 
What  thief  took  away 
A  bird's  nest  to-day.  " 

"  Cluck  !  Cluck  !  "  said  the  hen, 
ft  Don't  ask  me  again  ; 
W'hy,  I  haven't  a  chick 
Would  do  such  a  trick. 
We  all  gave  her  a  feather, 
And  she  wove  them  together. 
I'd  scorn  to  intrude 
On  her  and  her  brood. 
Cluck!  Cluck!  "said  the  hen, 
"Don't  ask  me  again." 

"  Chirr-a-whirr  !  Chirr-a-whirr  I 
All  the  birds  make  a  stir. 
Let  us  find  out  his  name, 
And  all  cry,  f  For  shame  !  " 


20  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

"I  would  not  rob  a  bird  !  " 

Said  little  Mary  Green, 
"  I  think  I  never  heard 

Of  anything  so  mean  !  " 

''It's  very  cruel,  too," 

Said  little  Alice  Neal, 
"I  wonder  if  he  knew 

How  sad  the  bird  would  feel." 

A  little  boy  hung  .down  his  head, 
And  went  and  hid  behind  the  bed : 
For  he  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  Yellow-Breast ; 
And  he  felt  so  full  of  shame 
He  did  not  like  to  tell  his  name.. 

—  Anon. 

TWO  LITTLE  HANDS. 

Two  little  hands  so  soft  and  white. 
This  is  the  left  —  this  is  the  right. 
Five  little  fingers  stand  on  each, 
So  I  can  hold  a  plum  or  a  peach. 
But  if  I  should  grow  as  old  as  you 
Lots  of  little  things  these  hands  can  do. 

— Anon. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  21 

THE    DANDELION. 

0  dandelion  yellow  as  gold, 
What  do  you  do  all  day  ? 

1  just  wait  here  in  the  tall  green  grass 

Till  the  children  come  to  play. 

0  dandelion  yellow  as  gold, 
What  do  you  do  all  night  ? 

1  wait  and  wait  till  the  cool  dews  fall 

And  my  hair  grows  long  and  white. 

And  what  do  you  do  when  your  hair  is  white 
And  the  children  come  to  play? 

They  take  me  up  in  their  dimpled  hands 
And  blow  my  hair  away. 

— Anon. 

A  MILLION  LITTLE  DIAMONDS 

A  million  little  diamonds 

Twinkled  on  the  trees  ; 
And  all  the  little  maidens  said, 

"  A  jewel,  if  you  please  !" 

But  while  they  held  their  hands  outstretched 

To  catch  the  diamonds  gay, 
A  million  little  sunbeams  came 

And  stole  them  all  away. 

'  _;)/•.  T.  Butts. 


22  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 


DAISY    NURSES. 

The  daisies  white    are    nursery    maids    with 

frills  upon  their  caps  ; 
And  c^aisy  buds  are  little    babes  they    tend 

upon  their  laps. 

Sing  rt  Heigh-ho  !  "  while  the  winds  sweep  low, 
Both  nurses  and  babies  are  nodding  JUST  so. 

The  daisy  babies  never  cry,  the  nurses  never 

scold ; 
They  never  crush  the  dainty  frills  about  their 

cheeks  of  gold ; 

But  pure  and  white,  in  gay  sunlight 
They're  nid-nodding  —  pretty  sight. 

The  daisies   love  the  golden  sun,  upon  the 

clear  blue  sky, 
He  gazes   kindly  down  on  them  and  winks 

his  jolly  eye  ; 

While  soft  and  low,  all  in  a  row, 
Both  nurses  and  babies  are  nodding  JUST  so. 

— Anon. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  23 


DANDELIONS. 

There  surely  is  a  gold  mine  somewhere  under- 
neath the  grass, 

For    dandelions    are    popping    out    in  every 
place  you  pass. 

But  if  you  want  to  gather  some  you'd  better 
not  delay, 

For  the  gold  will  turn  to  silver  soon  and  all 
will  blow  away. 

— Anon. 

AT   LITTLE    VIRGIL'S   WINDOW. 

There  are  three  green  eggs  in  a  small  brown 

pocket, 
And  the  breeze  will  swing  and  the  gale  will 

rock  it, 

Till  three  little  birds  on  the  thin  edge  teeter, 
And  our   God    be  glad    and    our    world    be 

sweeter. 

—  Edwin  Mark/mm. 


24  MEMOKY     SKLKCTIONS. 


MEMORY   GEMS. 

Do  thy  duty,  that  is  best. 
Leave  unto  the -Lord  the  rest. 


Whene'er  a  task  is  set  for  you, 
Don't  idly  sit  and  view  it  — 

Nor  be  content  to  wish  it  done  ; 
Begin  at  once  and  do  it. 

Beautiful  hands  are  those  that  do 
Work  that  is  earnest,  brave  and  true, 
Moment  by  moment,  the  long  day  through. 

—SeL 


SECOND  GRADE 


SEVEN    TIMES    ONE. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There's  no  rain  left  in  Ireaven  ; 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times"  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better — 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low  ; 

You  were  bright,  ah  bright  !  but  your  light  is 

failing, — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You   moon,  have  you   done  something  wrong 

in  heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  \vill  soon  be  forgiven, 

shin*1  again  in  your  place. 

'25 


2  MEMORY     SELECTIONS, 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow  ; 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold  ! 

0  brave  mavshmary  buds,  rich  and  yellow, 
.    Give  me  four  money  to  hold  ! 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones 

in  it, — 
1  will  not  steal  it  away ; 

1  am  old  !  y  ju  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet, — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day  ! 

—  Jea  n  In  qelow . 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

God  bless  the  little  stockings    all    over  the 

land  to-night 
Hung  in  the  choicest  corners,  in  the  glory  of 

crimson  light. 
The  tiny  scarlet  stockings,  with  a  hole  in  the 

heel  and  toe, 
Worn   by  the  wonderful   journeys   that    the 

darlings  have  to  go. 
And    Heaven    pity    the    children,    wherever 

their  homes  may  be, 
Who   wake    at   the   first    gray    dawning,    an 

empty  stocking  to  see. 

— Anon. 


MEMOKY     SELECTIONS 


MORNING  SONG. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
"  Let  me  fly,"  says  little  birdv, 
"Mother,  let  me  fly  away/' 

"Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronge* 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
"Let  me  rise  and  fly  away." 

"Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby,  too,  shall  fly  away." 

— Alfred  Tennyson 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

SUPPOSE,  MY  LITTLE  LADY 

Suppose,  my  little  lady, 

Your  doll  should  break  her  head  ; 

Could  you  make  it  whole  by  crying- 
Til  1  your  eyes  and  nose  are  red? 

And  wouldn't  it  be  pleasanter 

To  treat  it  as  a  joke, 
And  say  you're  glad  'twas  Dolly's. 

And  not  your  head,  that  broke  r 

Suppose  you're  dressed  for  walking 
And  the  rain  comes  pouring  down 

Will  it  clear  off  any  sooner 
Because  you  scold  and  frown  ? 

And  wouldn't  it  be  nicer 
For  you  to  smile  than  pout, 

And  so  make  sunshine  in  the  house 
When  there  is  none  without  ? 

Suppose  your  task,  my  little  man, 

Is  very  hard  to  get ; 
Will  it  make  it  any  easier 

For  you  to  sit  and  fret  ? 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS,  29 

And  wouldn't  it  be  wiser, 

Than  waiting  like  a  dunce, 
To  go  to  work  in  earnest, 

And  learn  the  thing  at  once? 

— Phoebe  Gary, 

THE  DAY'S  EYE. 

What  does  the  daisy  see 

In  the  breezy  meadows  tossing? 

It  sees  the  wide  blue  fields  o'er  head 
Arid  the  little  cloud  flocks  crossing. 

What  does  the  daisy  see 

Round  the  sunny  meadows  glancing? 
It  sees  the  butterflies'  chase 

And  the  filmy  gnats  at  their  dancing. 

What  does  the  daisy  see 

Down  in  the  grassy  thickets? 
The  grasshoppers  green  and  brown, 

And  the  shining,  coal-black  crickets. 

It  sees  the  bobolink's  nest, 

That  no  one  else  can  discover, 
And  the  brooding  mother- bird 

With  the  floating  grass  above  her. 

— Anon. 


30  MEMORY      SKLKCTIONS. 

THE   NIGHT    WIND. 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  wind  go  rf  Yoooooo  "  ? 

?Tis  a  pitiful  sound  to  hear  ; 
It  seems  to  chill  you  through  and  through 

With  a  strange  and  speechless  fear. 
Tis  the  voice  of  the  wind  that  broods  outside 

When  folks  should  be  asleep, 
And  many  and  many's  the  time  I've  cried 
To  the  darkness  brooding  far  and  wide 

Over  the  land  and  the  deep  : 
"Whom  do  you  want,  O  lonely  night, 

That  you  wail  the  long  hours  through?" 
And    the    night    would    say    in    its    ghostly 
way  : 

"  Yoooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  !  '* 

My  mother  told  me  long  ago 

When  I  was  a  little  lad 
That  when  the  night  went  wailing  so, 

Somebody  had  been  bad  ; 
And  then  Avhen  I  was  snug  in  bed, 

Whither  I  had  been  sent, 

With  the  blankets  pulled  up  round  my  head, 
I'd  think  of  what  my  mother  said. 

And  wonder  what  boy  she  meant. 
And,  "Who's  been  bad  to-day?"  I'd  ask 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  31 

Of  the  wind  that  hoarsely  blew, 
And   the  voice  would   say  in  its  meaningful 

way  : 
"  Yoooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  !  " 

That  this  was  true,  I  must  allow  — 

You'll  not  believe  it  though,  k 
Yes,  though  I'm  quite  a  model  now, 

I  was  not  always  so. 
And  if  you  doubt  what  things  I  say, 

Suppose  you  make  the  test ; 
Suppose  that  when  you've  been  bad  some  day, 
And  up  to  bed  you're  sent  away 

From  mother  and  the  rest  — 
Suppose  you  ask,  "Who  has  been  bad?" 

And  then  you'll  hear  what's  true  : 
For  the  wind  will  moan  in  its  ruefulest  tone  : 

"Yoooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  !  Yoooooooooo  *  " 

—  Eugene  Flel<l . 

THE    BLUE  BIRD'S  SONG. 

Little  white  snowdrop,  I  pray  you  arise  : 
Bright  yellow  crocus,  come,  open  your  eyes  : 
Sweet  little  violets  hid  from  the  cold, 
Put  on  your  mantles  of  purple  and  gold. 
Daffodils,  daffodils,  say,  do  you  hear? 
Summer  is  coming  and  springtime  is  here. 

— Anon. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

SUPPOSE. 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip 

Should  hang  its  golden  cup, 
And  say,  "I'm  such  a  tiny  flower, 

I'd  better  not  grow  up  ;  " 
How  many  a  weary  traveler 

Would  miss  its  fragrant  smell, 
And  many  a  little  child  would  grieve 

To  lose  it  from  the  dell. 

Suppose  the  little  breezes, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
Should  think  themselves  too  small 

To  cool  the  traveler  on  his  way  ; 

Who  would  not  miss  the  smallest 

• 

And  softest  cnes  that  blow, 
And  think  they  made  a  great  mistake f 
If  they  were  talking  so  ? 

Suppose  the  little  dewdrop 

Upon  the  grass  should  say, 
What  can  a  little  dewdrop  do? 

I'd  better  roll  away." 
The  blade  on  which  it  rested, 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
Without  a  drop  to  moisten  it, 

Would  wither  in  the  sun. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  33 

How  many  deeds  of  kindnes> 

A  little  child  can  do, 
Although  it  has  but  little  strength, 

And  little  wisdom,  too  ! 
It  wants  a  loving  spirit, 

Much  more  than  strength,  to  prove 
How  many  things  a  child  may  do 

For  others  by  its  love. 

—  Anon. 

AUTUMN  LEAVES. 

"  Come,  little  leaves/'  said  the  wind  one  day  ; 
"Come  over  the  meadows  with  me,  and  play, 
Put  on  your  dresses  of  red  and  gold, 
Summer  is  gone  and  the  days  grow  cold." 

Soon  the  leaves  heard  the  wind's  loud  call, 
Down  they  fell  fluttering,  one  and  all. 
Over  the  brown  fields  they  danced  and  flew, 
Singing  the  soft  little  songs  they  knew. 

Dancing  and  flying,  the  little  leaves  went ; 
Winter    had    called    them,    and    they    were 

content. 

Soon  fast  asleep  in  their  earthy  beds, 
The  snow  laid  a    white    blanket    over    their 

heads. 

— Anon. 


34  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

IF    I    WERE   A    SUNBEAM. 

"  If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

I  know  what  I'd  do  : 
I  would  seek  white  lilies 

Rainy  woodlands  through : 
I  would  steal  among  them, 

Softest  light  I'd  shed, 
Until  every  lily 

Raised  its  drooping  head. 

"If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

I  know  where  Fd  go  : 
Into  lowliest  hovels, 

Dark  with  wrant  and  woe  : 
Till  sad  hearts  looked  upward, 

I  would  shine  and  shine  ; 
Then  they'd  think  of  heaven, 

Their  sweet  home  and  mine." 

Art  thou  not  a  sunbeam, 

Child    whose  life  is  glad 
With  an  inner  radiance 

Sunshine  never  had  ? 
Oh,  as  God  has  blessed  thee, 

Scatter  rays  divine  ! 
For  there  is  no  sunbeam 

But  must  die,  or  shine. 

—  Lucy  Larcom. 


MKMOHY     SELECTIONS.  35 


MEADOW    TALK. 

A  bumble  bee,  yellow  as  gold 
Sat  perched  on  a  red-clover  top. 

When  a  grasshopper,  wiry  and  old. 
Came  along  with  a  skip  and  a  hop. 

"  Good  morrow  "  cried  he, "  Mr.  Bumble  Bee, 
You  seem  to  have  come  to  stop." 

"We  people  that  work,"  said  the  bee  with  a 
jerk, 

"Find  a  benefit  sometimes  in  stopping, 
Only  insects  like  you,  who  have  nothing  to  do 

Can  keep  perpetually  hopping/' 
The  grasshopper  paused  on  his  way 

And  thoughtfully  hunched  up  his  knees  : 
"Why  trouble  this  sunshiny  day/' 

Quoth  he,  "with  reflections  like  these? 
I  follow  the  trade  for  which  I  was  made 

We  all  can't  be  wise  bumble-bees  ; 
There's  a  time  to  be  sad  and  a  time  to  be  glad, 

A  time  for  both  working  and  stopping, 
For  men  to  make  money,  for  you  to  make 
honey, 

And  for  me  to  keep  constantly  hopping." 
—  Caroline  Leslie. 


36  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE    OLD   LOVE. 

I  once  Lad  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white,  dears, 
'   And  her  hair  was  so  charmingly  curled  : 
But  I  lost  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  day, 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week,  dears, 

And  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 

I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  day ; 
Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  dears, 

For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away  ; 
And  her  arms  trodden  off  by  the  cows,  dears, 

And  her  hair  not  the  least  bit  curled  : 
Yet  for  old  time's  sake,  she  is  still  to  me 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 

—  Charles  Kingsley. 

BED  IN  SUMMER. 

In  winter  I  get  up  at  night 
And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light. 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  wray, 
I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 

The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  37 

Or  hear  the  grown-up  people's  feet 
Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day  ? 

— Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

THREE  COMPANIONS. 

We  go  on  our  walk  together  — 

Baby  and  dog  and  I  — 
Three  little  merry  companions, 

'Neath  any  sort  of  sky  : 
Blue  as  our  baby's  eyes  are, 

Gray  like  our  old  dog's  tail : 
Be  it  windy  or  cloudy  or  stormy, 

Our  courage  will  never  fail. 

Baby's  a  little  lady  ; 

Dog  is  a  gentleman  brave  ; 
If  he  had  two  legs  as  you  have, 

He'd  kneel  to  her  like  a  slave  ; 
As  it  is,  he  loves  and  protects  her, 

As  dog  and  gentleman  can. 
I'd  rather  be  a  kind  doggie, 

I  think,  than  a  cruel  man. 

— D  inah  Mu lock-  Craik . 


38  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE  WIND. 

I  saw  you  toss  the  kites  on  high, 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky? 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass 
Like  Indies'  skirts  across  the  grass- 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

0  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  ! 

1  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 
But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 
I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 
I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 

O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  sons'! 


•*e 


O  you,  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 
O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old? 
Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree, 
Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  me? 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  1 

— Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

Hearts  like  doors  can  open  with  ease 
To  very,  very  little  keys  ; 
And  ne'er  forget  that  they  are  these  : 
"I  thank  you,  sir,"  and  "  If  you  please." 

— del 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  39 

THE    MINUET.* 

Grandma  told  me  all  about  it, 

Told  me  so  I  couldn't  doubt  it, 

How    she    danced,   my    grandma    danced ; 

long  ago  — 

How  she  held  her  pretty  head, 
How  her  dainty  skirt  she  spread, 
How  she  slowly  leaned  and  rose  —  long  ago. 

Grandma's  hair  was  bright  and  sunny, 
Dimpled  cheeks,  too,  oh,  how  funny  ! 
Really  quite  a  pretty  girl  —  long  ago. 
Bless  her !  why,  she  wears  a  cap, 
Grandma  does  and  takes  a  nap 
Every  single  day  :  and  yet 
Grandma  danced  the  minuet  —  long  ago. 

"Modern  ways  are  quite  alarming," 
Grandma  says,  "but  boys  were  charming" 
(Girls    and    boys    she    means    of    course-) 

"  long  ago/' 

Brave  but  modest,  grandly  shy  ; 
She  would  like  to  have  us  try 
Just  to  feel  like  those  who  met 
In  the  graceful  minuet  —  long  ago. 

—  Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 

*  From  "Along  the  Way,"  copyright  1879  by  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  aud 
published  by  Chap.  S^ribner's  Sons. 


40  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 


WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN   AND   NOD.* 

Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe, 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going?"     "  What  do  you 

wish  ?  " 

The  old  man  asked  the  three. 
"We  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 

That  live  in  the  beautiful  sea, 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod. 

The  old  man  laughed  and  sang  a  song 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Kuffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 

That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea,  — 
"Now  cast  your  nets  whenever  you  wish, 

Never  afeard  are  we  I  " 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three — 
Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod. 

*From  "Love  Songs  of  Childhood."  Copyright,  1894,  by  Eugene 
Field.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Chas.  Scribner's 
Sons. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  41 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam. 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden 
shoe 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home. 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 

And    some   folks   thought   'twas    a    dream 
they'd  dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea. 
But  I  can  name  you  the  fishermen  three — 
Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod. 

Wynkeii  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle  bed. 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 

As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea, — 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen 

three  — 
Wynken,  Blynken  and  Nod. 

—  Euyene  Field. 


42  MEMOK1"     SELECTION-. 

PRETTY  IS  THAT  PRETTY  DOES. 

The  spider  wears  a  plain  brown  dress, 

And  she  is  a  steady  spinner  ; 
To  see  her,  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Going  about  her  silver  house, 
You  would  never,  never,  never  guess 
The  way  she  gets  her  dinner. 

She  looks  as  if  no  thought  of  ill 

In  all  her  life  had  stirred  her ; 
But  while  she  moves  with  careful  tread, 
And  while  she  spins  her  silken  thread, 
She  is  planning,  planning,  planning  still 
The  way  to  do  some  murder. 

My  child,  who  reads  this  simple  lay, 

With  eyes  down-dropt  and  tender, 
Remember  the  old  proverb  says 
That  pretty  is  which  pretty  does, 
And  that  worth  does  not  go  nor  stay 
For  poverty  nor  splendor. 

?T  is  not  the  house,  and  not  the  dress, 

That  makes  the  saint  or  sinner. 
To  see  the  spider  sit  and  spin, 
Shut  with  her  walls  of  silver  in, 
You  would  never,  never,  never  guess 
The  way  she  gets  her  dinner. 

Alice  Gary. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  43 

LULLABY.* 

Over  the  cradle  the  mother  hung, 
Softly  crooning  a  slumber  song  : 

And  these  were  the  simple  words  she  sung 
All  the  evening  long. 

??  Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be? 
Where  shall  the  angel's  finger  rest 
When  he  comes  down  to  the  baby's  nest  ? 
Where  shall  the  angel's  touch  remain 
When  he  awakens  my  babe  again?" 

Still  as  she  bent  and  sang  so  low, 
A  murmur  into  her  music  broke  : 

And  she  paused  to  hear,  for  she  could  but 

know 
The  baby's  angel  spoke. 

"  Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee, 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be  ? 
Where  shall  my  finger  fall  and  rest 
When  I  come  down  to  the  baby's  nest '/ 
Where  shall  my  finger  touch  remain 
When  I  awaken  your  babe  again?" 

*  From  "  The  Complete  Poetical  Writings  of  J.  Q  Holland,"  copy- 
right 1879-1881  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


44  MEMORY     SELECTIONS, 

Silent  the  mother  sat  and  dwelt 
Long  in  the  sweet  delay  of  choice, 

And  then  by  her  baby's  side  she  knelt, 
And  sang  with  a  pleasant  voice  : 

"  Not  on  the  limb,  O  angel  dear  ! 
For  the  charm  with  its  youth  wall  disappear  : 
Not  on  the  cheek  shall  the  dimple  be, 
For  the  harboring  smile  will  fade  and  flee  ; 
But  touch  thou  the  chin  with  an  impress 

deep, 

And  my  baby  the  angel's  seal  shall  keep." 
— J.  G.  Holland. 


THIRD  GRADE 


DISCONTENT. 

Down  in  a  field  one  day  in  June,  the  flowers 

all  bloomed  together, 
Save    one    who    tried    to    hide    herself,    and 

drooped  that  pleasant  weather. 
A  robin  who  had  flown  too  high,  and  fe.lt  a 

little    lazy, 
Was  resting  near  this  buttercup  who  wished 

she  was  a  daisy. 

For    daisies    grow    so    slim    and    tall  !      She 

always  had  a  passion 
For  wearing  frills  about  her  neck  in  just  the 

daisies'  fashion. 
And  buttercups  must  always  be  the  same  old 

tiresome  color ; 
While    daisies    dress    in    gold    and    white, 

although  their  gold  is  duller. 

"Dear  Robin,"  said  the  sad  young  flower, 
"  Perhaps  you'd  not  mind  trying 

To  find  a  nice  white  frill  for  me,  some  day 
when  you  are  flying." 


4 1)  MEMORY     SELECTIONS, 

"  You  silly  thing  !  "  the  Robin  said,  "I  think 
you  must  be  crazy ; 

I'd  rather  be  my  honest  self,  than  any  made- 
up  daisy. 

"You're  nicer  in  your  own  bright  gown  ;  the 

little  children  love  you. 
Be  the  best  buttercup  you  can,  and  think  no 

flower  above  you. 
Though  swallows  leave  me  out  of  sight,  we'd 

better  keep  our  places  : 
Perhaps  the  world  would  all  go  wrong  with 

one  too  many  daisies. 
Look  bravely  up  into  the  sky  and  be  content 

with  knowing 
That  God  wished  for  a  buttercup,  just  here 

where  you  are  growing." 

— Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

OUR   FLAG. 

There  are  many  flags  in  many  lands, 

There  are  flags  of  every  hue, 
But  there  is  no  flag  in  any  land 

Like  our  own  Red,  White  and  Blue. 
I  know  where  the  prettiest  colors  are, 

I'm  sure,  if  I  only  knew 
How  to  get  them  here,  I  could  make  a  flag 

Of  glorious  Red,  White  and  Blue. 


MEMORY     SELECTION'S.  47 

I  would  cut  a  piece  from  the  evening  sky 

Where  the  stars  were  shining  through, 
And  use  it  just  as  it  was  on  high 

For  my  stars  and  field  of  Blue. 
Then  I  want  a  part  of  a  fleecy  cloud 

And  some  red  from  a  rainbow  bright, 
And  I'd  put  them  together,  side  by  side, 

For  my  stripes  of  Red  and  White. 

Then  ff  Hurrah  for  the  Flag  !  "  our  country's 

flag, 

Its  stripes  and  white  stars  too  ; 
There  is  no  flag  in  any  land 

Like  our  own  "Red,  White  and  Blue." 

— Anon. 


SONG   FROM   "PIPPA   PASSES." 

The  year's  at  the  spring. 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side's  clew-pearled  • 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  : 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world. 

—  Robert  Browning. 


48  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

LITTLE  BROWN  HANDS. 

They  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture. 

Up  through  the  long  shady  lane, 
Where  the  quail  whistles  loud  in  the  wheat- 
fields, 

That  are  yellow  with  ripening  grain. 
They  find,  in  the  thick,  waving  grasses, 

Where  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows. 
They  gather  the  earliest  snowdrops, 

And  the  first  crimson  buds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  new  hay  in  the  meadow ; 

They  gather  the  elder-bloom  white  ; 
They  find  where  the  dusky  grapes  purple 

In  the  soft -tinted  October  light. 
They  know  where  the  apples  hang  ripest, 

And  are  sweeter  than  Italy's  wines ; 
They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest 

On  the  long,  thorny  blackberry-vines. 

They  gather  the  delicate  sea- weeds, 

And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand  ; 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  sea-shells  — 

Fairy  barks  that  have  drifted  to  land. 
They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree-tops 

Where  the  oriole's  hammock-nest 
And  at  night-time  are  folded  in  slumber 

By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  49 

Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest ; 

The  humble  and  poor  become  great ; 
And  so  from  these  brown-handed  children 

Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  statesman  — 

The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land  — 
The  sword,  and  the  chisel,  and  palette, 

Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 

— M.  H.  Krout. 


WINTER  AND  SUMMER. 

Oh,  I  wish  the  Winter  would  go. 

And  I  wish  the  Summer  would  come, 

Then  the  big  brown  farmers  will  hoe, 
And  the  little  brown  bee  will- hum. 

Then  the  robin  his  fife  will  trill, 

And  the  wood-piper  beat  his  drum  ; 

And  out  of  their  tents  on  the  hill 
The  little  green  troops  will  come. 

Then  around  and  over  the  trees 
With  a  flutter  and, flirt  we'll  go, 

A  rollicking,  frolicking  breeze, 
And  away  with  a  frisk  ho  !  ho  ! 

— Anon. 


50  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE  BROOK. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  the  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges 


es. 


Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles  ; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays  ; 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  bank  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  51 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

And  draw  them  all  along  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 


52  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

—  Tennyson. 

THE    WONDERFUL    WORLD. 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  World, 
With  the  wonderful  water  around  you  curled. 
And  the  wonderful  grass  upon  your  breast  — 
World,  you  are  beautifully  dressed. 

The  wonderful  air  is  over  me, 
And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking  the  tree, 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the  mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  tops  of  the  hills. 

You",  friendly  Earth,  how  far  do  you  go, 
With  the  wheatfields  that  nod  and  the  rivers 

that  flow, 

With  cities  and  gardens,  and  cliffs,  and  isles, 
And  people  upon  you  for  thousands  of  miles  ? 

Ah,  you  are  so  great,  and  I  am  so  small, 
I  tremble  to  think  of  you,  World,  at  all ; 
And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers,  to-day, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  53 

A  whisper  inside  me  seemed  to  say, 

"You  are  more  than  the  earth,  though  you 

are  such  a  dot  : 
You  can  love  and  think,  and  the  Earth  can 

not !" 

—  W.  13,  Hands. 

DONT  GIVE  UP. 

If  you've  tried  and  have  not  won, 

Never  stop  for  crying ; 
All  that's  great  and  good  is  done 

Just  by  patient  trying. 

Though  young  birds,  in  flying,  fall, 
Still  their  wings  grow  stronger; 

And  the  next  time  they  can  keep 
Up  a  little  longer. 

Though  the  sturdy  oak  has  known 
Many  a  blast  that  bowed  her, 

She  has  risen  again,  and  grown 
Loftier  and  prouder. 

If  by  easy  work  you  beat, 

Who  the  more  will  prize  you  ? 

Gaining  victory  from  defeat. 

That's  the  test  that  tries  you  ! 

— Phwhe  Cw. 


54  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

WE    ARE    SEVEN. 

— A  simple  child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 

What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 
And  she  was  wildly  clad  : 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair— 
Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 
How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 

"How  many  ?  Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?  I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
My  -i>tor  and  my  brother; 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  55 

And  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother/' 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !  I  pray  you  tell, 
Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid 
Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"Their  graves   are   green,   they    may    be 

seen," 

The  little  Maid  replied, 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's 

door. 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit 
And  sing  a  song  to  them. 


56  MEMORY     SELi;CTlOX8. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  sir. 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 
And  then  she  went  away, 

"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 

And  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 
My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the   ground  was  white  with 

srow 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 
And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ?  " 
Quick  was  the  little  Maid's  reply, 
"  O  master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  " 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  57 

Twus  throwing  words  away  :  for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 
And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven  ! " 

—  Wordsworth. 


THE   LAND   OF   COUNTERPANE. 

When  I  was  sick  and  lay  abed, 
I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head, 
And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 
To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day. 

And  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 
With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 
Among  the  bedclothes,  through  the  hills  ; 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 
All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets  ; 
Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 
And  planted  cities  all  about. 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still, 
That  sit^  upon  the  pillow-hill, 
And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 
The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane. 

• — Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


58  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE  BROWN  THRUSH. 

There's  a  merry  brown  thrush  sitting  up  in 
the  tree, 

"He's  singing  to  me  !     He's  singing  to  me  !" 

And  what  does  he  say,  little  girl,  little  boy? 

"Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy  ! 
Don't  you  hear  ?     Don't  you  see  ? 
Hush  !     Look  !     In  my  tree, 
I'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be  ! " 

And  the  brown  thrush  keeps  singing,  "  A  nest 

do  you  see, 

And  five  eggs  hid  by  me  in  the  juniper  tree? 
Don't  meddle  !     Don't  touch  !  little  girl,  little 

boy, 

Or  the  world  will  lose  some  of  its  joy  ! 
Now  I'm  glad  !     Now  I'm  free  ! 
And  I  always  shall  be, 
If  you  never  bring  sorrow  to  me." 

So  the  merry    brown  thrush  sings  away   in 

the  tree, 

To  you  and  to  me,  to  you  and  to  me  : 
And  he  sings  all  the  day,  little  girl,  little  boy, 
"Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy  ! 
But  long  it  won't  be, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  59 

Ix  a't  you  know  ?  don't  you  see  ? 
Unless  we  are  as  good  as  can  be  !  " 

— Lucy  Larcom. 

THE    SILVER   BOAT. 

There  is  a  boat  upon  a  sea ; 

It  never  stops  for  you  or  me. 

The  sea  is  blue,  the  boat  is  white  ; 

It  sails  through  winter  and  summer  night. 

The  swarthy  child  in  India  land 
Points  to  the  prow  with  eager  hand ; 
The  little  Lapland  babies  cry 
For  the  silver  boat  a-sailing  by. 

It  fears  no  gale,  it  fears  no  wreck ; 
It  never  meets  a  change  or  check 
Through  weather  fine  or  wreather  wild. 
The  oldest  saw  it  when  a  child. 

Upon  another  sea  below 
Full  many  vessels  come  and  go ;" 
Upon  the  swaying,  swinging  tide 
Into  the  distant  worlds  they  ride. 

And  strange  to  tell,  the  sea  below, 
Where  countless  vessels  come  and  go, 
Obeys  the  little  boat  on  high 
Through  all  the  centuries  sailing  by. 

— Anon* 


60  MEMORY     SELECTION^. 

THE  DANDELION. 

Bright  little  dandelion, 

Downy,  yellow  face, 
Peeping  up  among  the  grass 

With  such  gentle  grace  ; 
Minding  not  the  April  wind 

Blowing  rude  and  cold  ; 
Brave  little  dandelion, 

With  a  heart  of  gold. 

Meek  little  dandelion, 

Changing  into  curls 
At  the  magic  touch  of  these 

Merry  boys  and  girls. 
When  they  pinch  thy  dainty  throat, 

Strip  thy  dress  of  green, 
On  thy  soft  and  gentle  face 

Not  a  cloud  is  seen. 

Poor  little  dandelion, 

Now  all  gone  to  seed, 
Scattered  roughly  by  the  wind 

Like  a  common  weed. 
Thou  hast  lived  thy  little  life 

Smiling  every  day  ; 
Who  could  do  a  better  thing 

In  a  better  way?  — Anon. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  ()1 

AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

The  day  is  ending, 
The  night  is  descending ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes, 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences  ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain  : 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell. 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 

— Longfellow. 


(r2  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

NIKOLINA.  * 

Oh, tell  me, little  children, have  you  seen  her — 

The  tiny  maid  from  Norway,  Nikolina? 

Oh,  her  eyes  are   blue   as  corn-flowers  'mid 

the  corn, 
And  her  chee*ks  are  rosy  red  as  skies  of  morn . 

Oh,  buy  the  baby's  blossoms  if  you  meet  her, 
And    stay  with   gentle    looks    and  words  to 

greet  her ; 
She'll  gaze  at  you  and  smile  and  clasp  your 

hand, 
But  not  one  word  of  yours  can  understand. 

*'  Nikolina  ! "     Swift  she  turns  if  any  call  her, 
As   she  stands    among   the    poppies,   hardly 

taller ; 

Breaking  off  their  flaming  scarlet  cups  for  you, 
With  spikes  of  slender  larkspur,  brightly  blue. 

In     her     little     garden     many    a    flower    is 

growing  — 
Red,    gold    and    purple,    in    the     soft     wind 

blowing  ; 

But  the  child  that  stands  amid  the  blossoms  gay 
Is  sweeter,  quainter,  brighter,  lovelier  even 

than  they. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  63 

Oh,  tell  me,  little  children,  have   you  seen 

her  — 

This  baby  girl  from  Norway,  Nikolina? 
Slowly  she's  learning  English  words  to  try 
And  thank  you  if  her  flowers  you  buy. 

—  Celia  Thaxter. 


LOST ! * 

"  Lock  the  dairy  door  ! "     Oh,  hark,  the  cock 

is  crowing  proudly  ! 
ff  Lock  the  dairy  door  !  "  and  all  the  hens  are 

cackling  loudly. 
"Chickle,    chackle,    chee ! "   they    cry;  "we 

haven't  got  the  key,"  they  cry, 
"  Chickle,  chackle,  chee  !  Oh,  dear  !  wherever 

can  it  be?"  they  cry. 

Up  and  down  the  garden  walks  where  all  the 

flowers  are  blowing, 
Out  about  the  golden  fields  where  ta1!  the 

wheat  is  growing, 
Through   the    barn    and   up  the    road,  they 

cackle  and  they  clatter ; 
Cry  the   children,  "Hear  the  hens!     Why, 

what  can  be  the  matter?" 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
or  the  publishers. 


64  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

What    scraping    and    what    scratching,  wha 

bristling  and  what  hustling, 
The  cock  stands  on  the  fence,  the  wind  hi 

ruddy  plumage  rustling. 
Like  a  soldier  grand  he  stands,  and  like  t 

trumpet  glorious, 
Sounds  his  shout  both  far  and  near,  imperi 

ous  and  victorious. 

But  to  the  Partlets  down  below  who  canno 

find  the  key,  they  hear, 
"Lock  the  dairy  door;"  that's  all  his  chal 

Jenge  says  to  them,  my  dear. 
Why  they  had   it,  how   they   lost   it,  mus 

remain  a  mystery ; 
I  that  tell  you,  never  heard  the  first  part  o 

the  history. 

But  if  you  listen,  dear,  next  time  the  cock 

crows  proudly 
"  Lock  the  dairy  door  !  "  you'll  hear  him  tell 

the  biddies  loudly  : 
"Chickle,    chackle,    chee  ! "    they    cry;  "we 

haven't  got  the  key  !  "  they  c  y ; 
"  Chickle,  chackle,  chee  !    Oh,  dear  !  wherever 

can  it  be?"  they  cry. 

—  Celia  Thaxter. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  65 


ROBIN   OR  I?* 

Robin  comes  with  early  spring, 
Dressed  up  in  his  very  best ; 

Very  pretty  is  his  suit  — 

Brownish  coat  and  reddish  vest. 

Robin  takes  my  cherry  tree 
For  his  very,  very  own  ; 

-Never  asking  if  he  may  — 

There  he  makes  his  dainty  home. 

Robin  eats  my  cherries,  too, 
In  an  open,  shameless  way ; 

Feeds  his  wife  and  babies  three  — 
Giving  only  songs  for  pay. 

Bolder  thief  than  robin  is 

Would  be  hard,  indeed,  to  find  ; 

But  he  sings  so  sweet  a  tune 
That  I  really  do  not  mind ! 

w  Cheer  up  !  Cheer  up  !  "  Robin  sings  ; 

"  Cheer  up  !  Cheer  up  !  "  all  day  long ; 
Shine  or  shower,  all  the  same, 
"  Cheer  up  !  Cheer  up  ! "  is  his  song. 

*  All  rights  reserved. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Eating,  singing,  Robin  lives 
There  within  my  cherry  tree ; 

When  I  call  him  «  robber  !  "  "'thief  I  * 
Back  he  flings  a  song  to  me  ! 

'May  I  have  some  cherries,  please?" 

Robin  never  thinks  to  say  ; 
Yet,  who  has  the  heart  —  have  you? 
Saucy  Rob  to  drive  away  ? 

—  Sarah  E.  Sprague. 


FOURTH  GRADE 


PSALM  XXIIf. 

1.  The  Lord  is    my    shepherd;  I   shall    not 

want. 

2.  He    maketh    me    to  lie    down    in    green 

pastures  :  He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still 
waters. 

3.  He  restoreth  my  soul :  He  leadeth  me  in 

the  paths  of  righteousness  for  His  name's 
sake. 

4.  Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of 

the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil : 
for  Thou  art  with  me,  Thy  rod  and  Thy 
staif  they  comfort  me. 

5.  Thou  preparest  a  table  before  iiie  in  the 

presence  of  mine  enemies  :  Thou  anoint- 
est  my  head  with  oil ;  my  cup  runneth 
over. 

6.  Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow 

me  all  the  days  of  my  life  ;  and  I  will 
dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever. 

—Bible. 


68  MEMORY    SELECTIONS. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SQUIRREL. 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squirrel 
Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "  Little 
Prig." 

Bun  replied  : 

"You  are  doubtless  very. big; 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together, 

To  make  up  a  year, 

And  a  sphere  ; 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 
To  occupy  my  place. 
If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 
Yoivre  not  so  small  as  I, 
And  not  half  so  spry. 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track. 

Talents  differ  ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put  : 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

—  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  69 

* 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increasts !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold ; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou?  "     The  vision  raised  its 

head, 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who    love 

the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Xay,  not 

so," 

Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The    next 

night 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 

had  blest ; 

And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 
— James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt. 


70  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

I 

BUGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow  !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying  ; 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying, 
dying  ! 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow  !  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying ; 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying, 
dying  ! 

O  love  !  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky  : 

They  faint  on  hill,  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow  !  set  the  wild  echoes  flying  ; 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer — •  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

— Tennyson. 


MEMORY    SELECTIONS.  Tl 

LITTLE   BOY    BLUE.* 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands  ; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair ; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said > 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise  ! " 
So  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed 

He  dreamed  of  the  pretty  toys  ; 
And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angePs  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue  — 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true. 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face. 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  these  long  years 
through, 

*  From  %l  Love  Songs  of  Childhood."  Copyright,  1894,  by  Eugene 
Field.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Chas.  Scribner'f 
Sons. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS . 


In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue 
Since  he  kissed  them  an.d  put  them  there 
—  Eugene  Field. 


PITTYPAT   AND   TIPPYTOE.* 

All  day  long  they  come  and  go  — 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe ; 
Footprints  up  and  down  the  hall; 
Playthings  scattered  on  the  floor, 
Finger  marks  along  the  wall, 
Tell-tale  smudges  on  the  door  ;  — 
By  these  presents  you  shall  know 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

How  they  riot  at  their  play ; 
And  a  dozen  times  a  day 
In  they  troop  demanding  bread  — 
Only  buttered  bread  will  do, 
And  that  butter  must  be  spread 
Inches  thick,  with  sugar,  too ; 
And  I  never  can  say  "  No, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe." 

*  From  "  Love  Songs  of  Childhood."  Copyright,  1894,  by  I  iigene 
Field.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Chas.  Scriimer'f 
Sims. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  73 

Sometimes  there  are  griefs  to  soothe, 
Sometimes  ruffled  brows  to  smooth, 
For  (I  much  regret  to  say) 

Tippytoe  and  Pittypat 
Sometimes  interrupt  their  play 

With  an  internecine  spat ; 
Fie,  for  shame  ;  to  quarrel  so  — 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

Oh,  the  thousand  worrying  things 
Every  day  recurrent  brings  ; 
Hands  to  scrub  and  hair  to  brush, 

Search  for  playthings  gone  amiss, 
Many  a  wee  complaint  to  hush, 

Many  a  little  bump  to  kiss  ; 
Life  seems  one  vain  fleeting  show 
To  Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

And  when  day  is  at  an  end 
There  are  little  duds  to  mend  ; 
Little  frocks  are  strangely  torn, 

Little  shoes  great  holes  reveal, 
Little  hose  but  one  day  worn, 

Rudely  yawn  at  toe  and  heel ; 
Who  but  you  could  work  such  woe, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe  ? 


74  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

But  when  comes  this  thought  to  m<5 
"Some  there  are  who  childless  be," 
Stealing  to  their  little  beds, 

With  a  love  I  cannot  speak. 
Tenderly  I  stroke  their  heads  — 

Fondly  kiss  each  velvet  cheek. 
God  help  those  who  do  not  know 
A  Pittypat  and  Tippy  toe. 

On  the  floor  and  down  the  hall, 
Rudely  smutched  upon  the  wall, 
There  are  proofs  of  every  kind 

Of  the  havoc  they  have  wrought ; 
And  upon  my  heart  you'd  find 

Just  such  trade  marks,  if  you  sought; 
Oh,  how  glad  I  am  'tis  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippy  toe. 

—  Eugene  Field. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  75 

RED   RIDIXG-HOOD.* 

On  the  wide  lawn  the  snow  lay  deept 
Ridged  o'er  with  many  a  drifty  heap ; 
The  wind  that  through  the  pine  tree?  *ung 
The  naked  elm-boughs  tossed  and  swung ; 
While  through  the  window,  frosty-starred, 
Against  the  sunset  purple  barr'd, 
We  saw  the  somber  crow  flit  by, 
The  hawks'gray  flock  along  the  sky, 
The  crested  blue-jay  flitting  swift, 
The  squirrel  poising  on  the  drift, 
Erect,  alert,  his  broad  gray  tail, 
Set  to  the  north  wind  like  a  sail. 

It  came  to  pass,  our  little  lass, 

With  flattened  face  against  the  glass, 

And  eyes  in  which  the  tender  dew 

Of  pity  shone,  stood  gazing  through 

The  narrow  space  her  rosy  lips 

Had  melted  from  the  frost's  eclipse. 

"Oh,  see  !"  she  cried,  "The  poor  blue-jays  1 

What  is  it  that  the  black  crow  says  ? 

The  squirrel  lifts  his  little  legs 

Because  he  has  no  hands,  and  begs; 

He's  asking  for  nuts,  I  know ; 

May  I  not  feed  them  on  the  snow  ?  " 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Miffliu  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permissier 
•f  the  publishers. 


76  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Half  lost  within  her  boots,  her  head 
Warm-sheltered  in  her  hood  of  red, 
Her  plaid  skirt  close  about  her  drawn, 
She  floundered  down  the  wintry  lawn  ; 
Now  struggling  through  the  misty  veil 
Blown  round  her  by  the  shrieking  gale ; 
Xow  sinking  in  a  drift  so  low 
Her  scarlet  hood  could  scarcely  show 
Its  dash  of  color  on  the  snow. 

She  dropped  for  bird  and  beast  forlorn 
Her  little  store  of  nuts  and  corn, 
And  thus  her  timid  guests  bespoke  : 
''Come,  squirrel,  from  your  hollow  oak  — 
Come,  black  old  crow;  come,  poor  blue-jay, 
Before  your  supper's  blown  away  ! 
Don't  be  afraid,  we  all  are  good  ! 
And  I'm  mamma's  Red  Riding-Hood  !" 

O  Thou  whose  care  is  over  all, 
Who  heedest  even  the  sparrow's  fall. 
Keep  in  the  little  maiden's  breast 
The  pity,  which  is  now  its  guest ! 
Let  not  her  cultured  years  make  less 
The  childhood  charm  of  tenderness. 
But  let  her  feel  as  well  as  know, 
Nor  harder  with  her  polish  grow  ! 
Unmoved  by  sentimental  grief 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  77 

That  wails  along  some  printed  leaf, 
But,  prompt  with  kindly  word  and  deed 
To  own  the  claims  of  all  who  need, 
Let  the  grown  woman's  self  make  good 
The  promise  of  Eed  Kiding-Hood  ! 

—  Whittier. 

THE    SANDPIPER  AND  L* 

Across  the  lonely  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood,  bleached  and 

dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild   wind  raves,   the   tide   runs 

high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry ; 

He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 
Nor  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 

He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong, 
He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye  : 

*     opyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
•f  tlie  publishers. 


78  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Stanch    friends    are    we,   well-tried  and 

strong, 
The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night, 

When  the   loosed   storm  breaks  furi- 
ously ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright  ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  can'st  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky ; 
For  are  we  not  God's  children,  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I? 

—  Gelia  Thaxter. 

IN   SCHOOL  DAYS.* 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sleeping ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow 

And  blackberry  vines  are  creeping. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep-scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Miffiin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
»f  the  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  79 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  the  wall, 
Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 

The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 
Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

Long  years  ago  a  winter's  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed, 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  his  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right,  to  left,  he  lingered  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 


80  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word, 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because  " —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell  - 
"Because,  you  see,  I  love. you." 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing. 

He  lives  to  learn  in  life's  hard  schoolT 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her  —  because  they  love  him. 

—  Whittiei 


TAKE   CARE. 

Little  children,  you  must  seek 
Rather  to  be  good  than  wise, 

For  the  thoughts  you  do  not 
Shine  out  in  your  cheeks  and 

If  you  think  that  you  can  be 
Cross  and  cruel  and  look  fair, 

Let  me  tell  you  how  to  see 
You  are  quite  mistaken  there. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  81 

Go  and  stand  before  the  glass, 
And  some  ugly  thought  contrive, 

And  my  word  will  come  to  pass 
Just  as  sure  as  you're  alive  ! 

What  you  have  and  what  you  lack, 
All  the  same  as  what  you  wear, 

Tou  will  see  reflected  back ; 
So,  my  little  folks,  take  care  ! 

And  not  only  in  the  glass 

Will  your  secrets  come  to  view ; 

All  beholders,  as  they  pass, 

Will  perceive  and  know  them,  too» 

Goodness  shows  in  blushes  bright, 
Or  in  eyelids  dropping  down, 

Like  a  violet  from  the  light ; 
Badness  in  a  sneer  or  frown. 

Out  of  sight,  my  boys  and  girls, 

Every  root  of  beauty  starts ; 
-So  think  less  about  your  curls, 

More  about  your  minds  and  hearts. 

Cherish  what  is  good,  and  drive 
Evil  thoughts  and  feelings  far ; 

For,  as  sure  as  you're  alive, 

You  will  show  for  what  you  are. 

—  Alice  Gary. 


82  MEMOKl"    SELECTIONS. 

A  LIFE   LESSON.* 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  I 

They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know; 

And  your  tea-set  blue, 

And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago  ; 

But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by* 

There  !  little  girl.;  don't  cry  ! 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know; 

And  the  glad  wild  ways 

Of  your  school-girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago ; 

But  life  and  love  will  soon  come  by. 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  I 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  ! 

They  have  broken  your  heart,  I  know  \ 

And  the  rainbow  gleams 

Of  your  youthful  dreams 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago  ; 

But  heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh, 

There  !  little  girl ;  don't  cry  I 

—  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

•From   u  Afterwhiles,"  copyrighted   1887,  by   Bowen-Merrlll  Ofc 
Host  not  be  reprinted  without  permission  from  the  publishers. 


FIFTH  GRADE 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  : 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat ; 

He  earns  whatever  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  to  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell 
When  the  evening:  sun  is  low. 


84  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

And  children,  corning  home  from  school, 

Look  in  at  the  open  door  ; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

i*  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more  — 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And,  with  his  hard,  rough  hand,  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 
Each  .evening  sees  its  close ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  85 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life, 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought  ; 

Thus,  on  its  sounding  anvil,  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 

— Longfellow . 

LOVE  OF  COUNTRY 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  writhin  him  burn'd, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd, 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell  ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim  ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concenter'd  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonor'd,  and  unsung. 

—  ticott. 


£  MEMORY     SKLKCTrONJs. 

THE   DAFFODILS. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills , 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daftbdils  ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  wray, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced  ;  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodil*. 

—  Wordsworth- 


\ 


MEMORY     SKLKCTION8.  87 


A   CHILD'S    THOUGHT    OF    GOD. 

They  say  that  God  lives  very  high  : 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  God.     And  why? 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  him  in  the  gold, 
Though,  from  him,  all  that's  glory  shines. 

God  is  so  good,  he  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  his  face  — 
Like  secrets  kept  for  love  untold. 

But  still  I  feel  that  his  embrace 

.Slides  down  by  thrills,  through  all  things 

made, 
Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place : 


As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lids  her  kisses'  pressure, 
Half  waking  me  at  night ;  and  said, 

"Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear 
guesser  ? 

-—Mrs.  Browning* 


88  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

FROM   MY   ARM-CHAIR.* 

Am  I  a  king  that  I  should  call  my  own 
This  splendid  ebon  throne  ? 
Or  by  what  reason  or  what  right  divine, 
Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

Only,  perhaps,  by  right  divine  of  song 
It  may  to  me  belong : 
Only  because  the  spreading  chestnut  tree 
Of  old  was  sung  by  me. 

Well  I  remember  it  in  all  its  prime, 
When  in  the  summer  time 
The  affluent  foliage  of  its  branches  made 
A  cavern  of  cool  shade. 

There  by  the  blacksmith's  forge,  beside 

the  street, 

Its  blossoms  white  and  sweet 
Enticed  the  bees,  until  it  seemed  alive, 
And  murmured  like  a  hive. 

And  when  tlie  winds  of  autumn,  with  a 

shout, 

Tossed  its  great  arms  about, 
The  shining  chestnuts,  bursting  from  the 

sheath, 
Dropped  to  the  ground  beneath. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
Of  the  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  89 

And  now  some  fragments  of  its  branches 

bare , 

Shaped  as  a  stately  chair, 
Have,  by  a  hearth-stone  found  a  home 

at  last, 
And  whisper  of  the  past. 

The  Danish  king  could  not  in  all  his  pride 

Repel  the  ocean  tide. 

But,  seated  in  this  chair, 

I  can  in  rhyme 

Roll  back  the  tide  of  time. 

I  see  again,  as  one  in  vision  sees, 
The  blossoms  and  the  bees, 
And  hear  the  children's  voices  call, 
And  the  brown  chestnuts  fall. 

I  see  the  smithy  with  its  fires  aglow, 
I  hear  the  bellows  blow, 
And  the  shrill  hammers  on  the  anvil  beat 
The  iron  white  with  heat. 

And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made 

for  me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 
And  to  my  more  than  three-score  years 

and  ten 
Brought  back  my  youth  again. 


90  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

The    heart    hath    its  own  memory,  like 

the  mind 

And  in  it  are  enshrined 
The  precious  keepsakes,  into    which  is 

wrought 
The  giver's  loving  thought. 

Only  your  love  and  your  remembrance 

could 

Give  life  to  this  dead  wood, 
And  make  these  branches,  leaiess  now 

so  long, 
Blossom  again  in  song. 

—  Longfellow. 


A   SONG   OF  EASTER,* 

Sing,  children,  sing, 
And  the  lily  censers  swing  | 
Sing  that  life  and  joy  are  waking  and  that 

Death  no  more  is  king. 

Bing  the  happy,  happy  tumult  of  the  slowly 
bright'ning  Spring ; 

Sing,  little  children,  sing? 
Sing,  children,  sing, 
Winter  wild  has  taken  wing. 

•Copyrighted  by  Honghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
*f  the  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  91 

Fill  the  air  with  the  sweet   tidings    till  the 

frosty  echoes  ring. 

Along  the  eaves,  the  icicles  no  longer  cling; 
And  the  crocus  in  the  garden  lifts  its  bright 

face  to  the  sun  ; 

And  in  the  meadow,  softly  the  brooks  begin 
to  run ; 

And  the  golden  catkins,  swing- 
In  the  warm  air  of  the  Spring  — 
Sing,  little  children,  sing. 

Sing,  children,  sing, 
The  lilies  white  you  bring 
In  the  joyous  Easter  morning,  for  hopes  are 

blossoming, 
And  as  earth  her  shroud  of  snow  from  off  her 

breast  doth  fling, 
So   may  we    cast   our   fetters    off  in    God's 

eternal  Spring ; 
So  may  we  find  release  at  last  from  sorrow 

and  from  pain, 

Soon  may  we  find  our  childhood's  calm,  deli- 
cious dawn  again . 
Sweet  are  your  eyes,  O  little  ones,  that  look 

with  smiling  grace, 
Without  a  shade  of  doubt   or  fear  into  the 

future's  face. 


92  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Sing,    sing    in   happy    chorus,    with    happy 

voices  tell 

That  death  is  life,  and  God  is  good,  and  all 
things  shall  be  well. 

That  bitter  day  shall  cease 
In  warmth  and  light  and  peace, 
That  winter  yields  to  Spring  — 
Sing,  little  children,  sing. 

—  Celia  TJwxter* 

THE   JOY   OF   THE   HILLS.* 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride  ; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field  lark's  rippling  notes  — 
Lightly  I  sweep  from  steep  to  steep  ; 
O'er  my  head  through  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  deep  blue  sky  ; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks  : 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks ; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass  ; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret  — 

All  the  terror  and  pain  of  a  chafing  chain. 

*  By  permission  from  Edwin  Markham's  k  Joy  of  the  HiUs  and  Othtr 
Poems,"  copyright  by  Doubleday  AMcGlure,  New  V-.;  :<. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  93 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind  !  I  leave  you  a  blur 

behind. 

I  am  lifted  elate  —  the  skies  expand  ; 
Here    the  world's   heaped   gold  is  a  pile  of 

sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their   narrow 

walls ; 

I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls. 
I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream  —  I  swing. 
Down  the  very  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing. 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word ; 
My  body  's  a  bough  in  the  wind, —  my  heart 

a  bird. 

— Edwin  Markham. 


IN   BLOSSOM   TIME. 

Its  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 

To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing, 

To  sing  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 
In  the  balm  and  blossoming. 

Sing  loud,  O  bird  in  the  tree  ; 

O  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 
And  honey-bees,  blacken  the  clover- 
beds  ; 

There  are  none  of  you  as  glad  as  I. 


94  >1  KM  <>  1 1 Y     S  KL  KCTION8  . 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind, 
Laugh  low  with  the  wind  at  play  ; 

And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 
Entices  my  soul  away. 

For  oh,  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair, 
And  oh,  but  the  world  is  sweet ; 

I  will  out  in  the  old  of  the  blossoming 

mould, 
And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak, 
I  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim, 

That  the  lips  of  the  blossom  more  pure 

and  meek 
May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 

Then    sing   in   the    hedgerow  green,  O 

thrush, 

O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue ; 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King  may 

hear, 

And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you. 
—  Ina  OodSbrith. 


MEMOK1      SELECTIONS.  #0 

THE  STARS  AND  THE  FLOWERS.* 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers  so  blue  and  golden 
Stars  that  in  earth's  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are  wherein  we  read  our  history, 
As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars  that  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  UR 
Stands  the  revelation  of  His  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 
Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours 

Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 
Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 

Of  the  selfsame  universal  Being, 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

*Copyrighted  by  Honghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  perreiss-una 
of  the  publishers. 


96  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining; 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gaily  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes  blossoming  at  night. 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 
seeming, 

Workings  are  they  of  the  selfsame  powers, 
Which  the  poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing, 
Some  like  stars  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born  : 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  overflowing, 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn. 

Not  alone  in  Spring's  armorial  bearing, 
And  in  summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn's  wearing, 
In  the  center  of  his  blazoned  shield. 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys 
On  the  mountaintop  and  by  the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pool  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  nature  stoop  to  drink; 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  97 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  birds  or  beasts  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes  carved  in  stone; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestral  homes  whose  crumbling  towers, 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers. 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers    expand  their  light  and  soul-like 
wings ; 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand ; 

Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

—  Longfellow 


98  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

MEADOW-LARKS. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !    Oh,  happy  that  I  am ! 
(Listen  to  the  meadow-larks,   across  the 

fields  that  sing  !) 
Sweet,   sweet,   sweet!     O   subtle    breath  of 

balm, 

O  winds  that  blow,  O  buds  that  grow,  O 
rapture  of  the  spring  ! 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  skies,  serene  and 

blue, 
That  shut  the  velvet  pastures  in,  that  fold 

the  mountain's  crest ! 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweei       What  of  the  clouds 

ye  knew? 

The  vessels  ride  a  golden  tide,  upon  a  sea 
at  rest. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     Who   prates  of  care 

and  pain? 
Who  says  that  life  is  sorrowful  ?     O  life  so 

glad,  so  fleet ! 
Ah  !  he  who  lives  the  noblest  life  finds  life 

the  noblest  gain, 
The  tears  of  pain  a  tender  rain  to  make  its 
waters  sweet. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  99 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !  O  happy  world  that  is  ! 
Dear   heart,  I  hear    across    the  fields  my 

mateling  pipe  and  call 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet !  O  world  so  full  of  bliss, 
For  life  is  love,  the  world  is  love,  and  love 
is  over  all ! 

—  Ina  Goolbrith. 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  1  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

—  Lonafettow. 


100  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE   FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY   OF 
AGASSIZ.* 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  wray  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvelous  tale. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Honghton,  Mifflin  &  Co,    Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers. 


MEMOUV     SELECTIONS.  101 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud  ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark  I 
For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 

It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 
And  my  boy  does  not  return  1 " 

—  Longfellow. 


fcifc 


•  .  ; 


SIXTH  GRADE 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Oh,  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  1 

Oh.    well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 


the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 
But  oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  I 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  i?  dead 

Will  nerrer  come  back  to  me. 

— Alfred.  Lord  Tennyson. 


104  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

COLUMBUS  —WEST  WARD.* 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules  ; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said  :  "  Now  we  must  pray, 

For  lo,  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'r'l  speak  ;  what  shall  I  say  ?  " 

"Why  say  :  '  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  ! ' : 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day  ; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak/' 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home  ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
"What  shall  I  say,  brave  AdmYl,  say, 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn  ?  " 
"Why  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day  : 

*  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  ' 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  the  winds  might 
blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said  : 
"Why,  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 

*In  a  recent  critical  article,  in  the  London  Athenaeum  is  the  st -\ 
"In  point  of  power,  workmanship  aud  feeling,  among  all  the    potms 
written  by  Americans,  we  are  inclined  to  give  first  place  lo  the   •  [Vrt 
of  Ships  '    or  'Oolnmbiis  ')  by  Joaquin  Miller." 


MEMOKY     SELECTIONS.  10;") 

These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 

Now  speak,  brave  Adm VI ;  speak  and  say" — 
He  said  :  "  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  " 

They   sailed.      They   sailed.     Then   spake 
the  mate  : 

fr  This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lips,  he  lies  in  wait. 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite  ! 
Brave  AdmVl,  say  but  one  good  word ; 

AVhat  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone  ?  " 
The  words  leapt  as  a  leaping  sword  : 

"  Sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  sail  on  !  " 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.    Ah,  that 

night 
Of  all  dark  nights  !     And  then  a  speck  — 

A  light !     A  light !     A  light !     A  light ! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled  ! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world  ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson  :  '?  On  !  sail  on  !  " 
—  Joaquin  Miller. 


106  MEMORY     SELECTION.-*. 

THE   DAY   IS   DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist5 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me. 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain. 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resemblos  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards*  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time, 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

*  bards,  ancient  poets. 


MK.MOKY     SELECTIONS.  101 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor ; 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction* 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume* 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

— Longfellow . 

*  benediction,  blessing. 


108  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

THE   LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  on  v  stern 

and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the    woods  against  a  stormy  sky  their 

giant  branches  tossed ; 
And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark  the  hills  and 

waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark  on 

the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes,. they  the  true- 
hearted,  came  ; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  stirring  drums,  and  the 
trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come,  in  silence  and  in  fear  ; 

They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloorn 
with  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang,  and  the  stars 

heard,  and  the  sea  ; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim   woods 

rang  with  the  anthems  of  the  free  ! 
The  ocean  eagle  soared  from  his  nest  by  the 

white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared  — 

this  was  their  welcome  home  ! 


MEMORY     SKLKCTION  s .  K*9 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair  amider  that 

pilgrim  band  ; 
Why  had  they  come  to    wither    there  away 

from  their  childhood's  land? 
There  was  woman's  fearless  eye,  lit  by  her 

deep  love's  truth  ; 
There    was  manhood's  brow    serenely    high, 

and  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar?     Bright  jewels 

of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war?     They 

sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 
Ay,  call  it  holy  ground,  the  soil  where  first 

they  trod  : 
They  left  unstained,  what  there  they  found, 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

— Mrs.  flemans. 


HE  PRAYETH  BEST. 

"He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

— Coleridge. 


110  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

% 

EACH   AND   ALL. 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  von  red-cloaked 

clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hilltop  looking  down  ; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far  heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm, 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst   his    files    sweep    round    yon    Alpine 

height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
Ail  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even, 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  the  river  and  sky ; 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  they  sang  to  my  eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore  ; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  Ill 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home  ; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisesorne  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  up- 
roar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  .^he  strayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  quire. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the   bird    from  the  woodlands    to    the 

cage; 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
When  I  said,  "I  covet  truth  : 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground  pine  curled  its  pretty  leaf, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs  ; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  tirs, 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground. 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity  ; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 


112  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  : 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

— Emerson. 

PAUL   RE  VERB'S   RIDE. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere. 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April  in  Seventy-five  ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town*  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light  — 
One  if  by  land,  and  two  if  by  sea, 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shoref  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said  "  Good-night ! "  and  with  muffled 

oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just,  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

*  Boston.  t  Charlestown. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  113 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,    his    friend,    through    alley    and 

street, 

Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers* 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  tower  of  the  church, 
Up  the  wooden  stairs  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry  chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch, 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade  — 
Up  the  light  ladder,  slender  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

*  grenadiers,  British  soldiers. 


114  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near. 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle  girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 

And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns  ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  the  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a 

spark 
otruck  out  by  a  steed  that  flies  fearless  imd 

fleet ; 
That  was  all !  And  yet  through  the  gloom  anc 

the  light, 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night. 


MEMOKY    SELECTIONS.  115 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge    into    Medftml 

town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  rode  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and 

bare , 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  stare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  the  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm — 


116  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forever  more  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

—  Longfelloic. 

BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

of  the  Lord ; 
He  is  tramping  out  the    vintage  where    the 

grapes  of  wrath  are  stored  ; 
He    hath  loosed  the  fateful   lightning  of  his 

terrible  swift  sword ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hun- 
dred circling  camps  ; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  even- 
ing dews  and  damps  ; 

I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim 
and  flaring  lamps  : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  117 

% 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished 
rows  of  steel ; 

"As  ye  deal  with    my  contemners,   so    with 
you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  ser- 
pent with  his  heel ; 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall 

never  call  retreat ;  t 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his 

judgment  seat ; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him  !  be 

jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies,  Christ  was  born 

across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures 

you  and  me ; 

As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to 
make  men  free, 

While  God  is  inarching  on. 

—  Julia  Ward  Howe. ' 


118         MEMORY  SELECTIONS. 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY.* 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy  with  cheeks  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 
With  thy  red  lips,  redder  still, 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  I  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  rnocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  in  schools, 
Of  the  wrild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung, 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 

Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
v-he  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  119 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine, 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for  ! 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade. 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  oi^i. 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall. 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides. 

I  was  monarch  :   pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

—  WkiUier. 


120  MEMORY    SELECTIONS. 

LINCOLN,  THE  GKEAT  COMMONER.* 

When  the  Norn-mother  saw  the  Whirl- wind 

Hour, 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 
She  bent  the  strenuous  heavens  and  came  down 
To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 
She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road, 
Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  earth, 
Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy  : 
Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff, 
It  was  a  stuff  to  wear  for  centuries, 
A  man  that  matched  the  mountains  and  com- 
pelled 
The  stars  to  look  our  way  and  honor  us 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red 

Earth 

The  tang  and  odor  of  the  primal  things  — 
The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  rocks  : 
The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn  ; 
The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea  ; 
The  justice  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves  ; 
The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scare; 
The  loving  kindness  of  the  wayside  well ; 
The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 
That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  weed 

'Copyrighted  by  Doubleday  &  McClure.    Keprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers. 


MEMOKY     SELECTIONS.  121 

As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind  — 
To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 
That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

And  so  he  came 

From  prairie  cabin  up  to  Capitol, 
One  fair  Ideal  led  our  chieftain  on. 
Forevermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed 
With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king. 
He  built  the  rail  pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every 

blow, 

The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  blow, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

So  came  the  captain  with  the  mighty  heart ; 
And  when  the  step  of  earthquake   shook  the 

house, 

Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  hold, 
He  held  the  ridge-pole  up  and  spiked  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Hoim      He  held  his  place — 
Held  the  long  purpose  lihe  a  growing  tree  — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at 

praise . 

And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar  green  with  boughs 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon*  the  hills, 
—  Edwin  Markham. 


122  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

OPPORTUNITY.  * 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream : 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields,  a  prince's 

banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed 

by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And   thought :  "  Had  I  a    sword   of  keener 

steel  — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears  — 

but  this 
Bkmt  thing  !"     He  snapped  and  flung  it  from 

his  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then    came   the    king's   son    wounded,   sore 

bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt  buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 
And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle  shout 
Lifted  afresh,  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  on  that  heroic  day. 
— Edward  Rowland  /Sill. 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
9f  the  publishers. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  123 

A   SONG.* 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear; 

There  is  ever  a  something  sings  alway  : 
There's  the  song  of  the  lark  when  the  skies 

are  clear, 

And  the  song  of  the  thrush  when  the  skies 
are  gray. 

The  sunshine  showers  across  the  grain, 

And  the  bluebird  trills  in  the  orchard  tree  ; 

And  in  and  out,  when  the  eaves  drip  rain, 
The  swallows  are  twittering  ceaselessly. 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear. 

Be  the  skies  above  or  dark  or  fair, 
There  is  ever  a  song   that  our  hearts   may 

hear — 
There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear — 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere  ! 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear, 
In  the  mid-night   black,   or  the   mid-day 

blue  ; 
The  robin  pipes  when  the  sun  is  here, 

And  the   cricket    chirps    the  whole    night 
through. 

•From   "Aftcrwhilfe$,M    copyrighted    1887,  by    Boweu-Merrili    Co- 
Host  no(  be  reprinted  without  permission  from  the  publishers. 


124  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

The  buds  may  blow,  and  the  fruit  may  grow, 
And  the  autumn  leaves  drop  crisp  and  sear ; 

But  whether  the  sun,  or  the  rain,  or  the  snow, 
There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  ray  dear. 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear. 

Be  the  skies  above  or  dark  or  fair, 
There  is  ever  a  song  that  our  hearts  may  hear — 
There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear — 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere  ! 

—  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

TO   A   FRIEND. 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine  are  laid  in  earth, 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

—  Fitz-  Greene  Halle.'-lc. 


SEVENTH  GRADE 


PSALM  CXXI. 

1.  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes    unto   the   hJ'U 

from  whence  cometh  my  help. 

2.  My  help  cometh    from    the    Lord,  wbidr 

made  Heaven  and  earth. 

3.  He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  he  moved  „ 

He  that  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber. 

4.  Behold,    He    that    keepeth    Israel     shall 

neither  slumber  nor  sleep. 

5 .  The  Lord  is  thy  keeper  :  The  Lord  is  thy 

shade  on  thy  right  hand. 

6.  The  sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day,  nor 

the  moon  by  night. 

7.  The  Lord    shall    preserve    thee    from    all 

evil :  He  shall  preserve  thy  soul. 

8.  The  Lord  shall  preserve    thy    going    out 

and  thy  coming  in  from  this  time  forth, 
and  even  for  evermore. 

—Bible. 

125 


126  MEMORY     SELECTIONS, 

RAIN   IN   SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat, 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  upon  the  roofs 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout. 

Across  the  window-pane 

It  pours  and  pours, 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain ! 

From  the  neighboring  school 
Come  the  boys 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  127 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic*  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country  on  every  side, 

Where,  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  h.ae, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand. 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumberedf  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil, 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

}eem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

•  mimic,  copies  (tops).  t  encumbered,  burden**- 


128  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees  ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius*  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fi3lds  of  air  i 

And,  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled, 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said; 

For  his  thought,  which  never  stops, 

*  Aquarius,  water-bearer. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  129 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground. 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven, 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven. 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  seer,* 
With  vision  clear, 
Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 
In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange 
Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth; 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth, 
Till  glimpses  more  sublime 
Of  things  unseen  before 
Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 
The  universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 
Turning  forevermore 
In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  time. 

— Longfellow. 

*  see    prophet,  wise  man. 


130  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

A   PSALM    OF    LIFE. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !   life  is  earnest  ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  f  3  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts  though  stout  and  brave. 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  — 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  future,  hoxve'er  pleasant ; 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ! 


MEMOIiY     SELECTIONS.  131 

Act,  act  in  the  living  present, 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  : 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again, 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

—  Longfellow. 

HYMN  ON  THE  FIGHT  AT  CONCORD. 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept, 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps, 

And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 


132  MEMORY    SELECTIONS. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 
We  set  to-day  the  votive  stone, 

That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 
When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

—  R.   W.  Emerson. 

TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps 

of  day, 
Far,    through  their  rosy  depths,    dost    thou 

pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowlers'  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  Chafed  ocean  side? 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  133 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon    shalt  thou  find  a  summer    home,  and 

rest, 

And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall 
bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd    up   thy  form  ;  yet>   on    my 

heart, 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 

flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

— Bryant. 


134  MEMORY     SELECTIONS, 

THE    HERITAGE, 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 

A  heritage  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 

The  banks  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 

A  heritage  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare  ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hands  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair  ; 

A  heritage  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit  ; 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  135 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

Tn  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 
A  rank  adjuged  by  toil-won  merit, 

Content  that  from  enjoyment  springs, 

A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 
A  heritage  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  P 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands  ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands  — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 


136  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

O  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state ; 

There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 
In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 

Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 

Both  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

—  Lowell. 


ELEGY 

WRITTEN    IN    A    COUNTRY    CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea^ 

The  ploughman   homeward  plods  his  weary 

way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 

sight, 
And.  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  137 

Save  wneiethe  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that   yew-tree's 

shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moulder- 
ing heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The    swallow    twittering    from    the  straw- 
built  shed, 

The  CCH  k's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
Xo  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly 
bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn , 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
ir  furro 
broke  : 


Their  furrow  oft  the   stubborn   glebe   has* 


158  MEMOR v    SELECTIONS. 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that   beauty,  all   that  wealth   <>Vr 
gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where    through    the    long-drawn    aisle    and 

fretted  vault, 

The    pealing    anthem    swells    the    note    of 
praise.  • 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some   heart   once    pregnant   with    celestial 
tire  : 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  1,'Uf 

Hands,  that   the    rod  of  empire  might  have 

swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with    the   spoils    of  time,    did    ne'er 
unroll ; 

(hill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air, 

Some  village  Harnpden,  that  with  dauntless 

breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  tields  withstood, 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell   guiltless  of  his  country's* 
blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 
Their   growing  virtues,   but    their    crimes 
confin'd  ; 


140  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 
hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  ni«rh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 

deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  oi"ti  sii>h. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  tlv  unletter'd 
Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  :       , 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  ling'ring  look  behind? 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  141 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  : 

Kv'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,.who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  Dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate  ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  Ashall  enquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

r?  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  *ld  fantastic  roots  so 
high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would 

rove  ; 

Xow  uiooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless 
love..  . 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree  ; 


142  MEMGKY      SEL*A  TiOiS^. 

Another  came :  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  , 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw 

him  borne  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the 

lay 

Grav'd    on   the  stone    beneath   yon    aged 
thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 

Fair  science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  heav'n ('twas  all  he  wish'd) 
a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or   draw    his    frailties    from    their    dread 

abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose 
The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God. 

—  Thomas  Gray. 


MEMORY    SELECTIONS.  143 

GRADATIM.* 

Heaven  is  not  gained  at  a  single  bound ; . 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true, 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God  — 
Lifting  the.  soul  from  the  common  sod 
To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

We  rise  by  things  that  are  'neath  our  feet ; 
By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gam  ; 
By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to -life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 
Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 
And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 
While^our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

*  From  "The  Complete  Poetical  Writings  of  J.  G.  Holland,"  copy- 
right 1879-1881  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


144  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men ! 
We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way  — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and 

pray, 
But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 
From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls ; 
But  the  dream  -departs,  and  the  vision  falls, 
And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone, 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  : 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

—  J.  G.  Holland. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  145 

GOD   SAVE    THE   FLAG.* 

Washed  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  the 
blooming, 

Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent  foes, 
Burning  with  star-fires,  but  never  conswrning, 

Flashed  its  broad  ribbons  of  lily  and  rose. 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend  it, 
Vainly  his  worshipers  pray  for  its  fall ; 

Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  defend  it, 
Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all. 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her  terrors, 
Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white-handed 
train , 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  errors, 
Sheathing  the  saber  and  breaking  the  chain. 

Born  on  the  deluge  of  old  usurpations, 
Drifted  our  Ark  o'er  the  desolate  seas, 

Bearing  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  nations 
Torn  from  the  storm-cloud  and  flung  to  the 
breeze  ! 

God  bless  the  flag  and  its  loyal  defenders 
While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battte-delds 
wave, 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers. 


14-K  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Till  the  dim  star-wreaths  rekindle  its  splen- 
dors 

Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of  the 
brave  ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


LIFE.* 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and    night  —  Fore- 
noon and  afternoon  and  night, 
Forenoon,  and  —  what! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  life  :  Make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered  and  thy  crown  is  won, 
— Edward  Rowland  Sitt. 

*  Copyrighted  b"  Houghtoa,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers 


EIGHTH  GRADE 


HYMN   TO  THE   NIGHT. 

[  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might. 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above  ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold  soft  chimes, 
That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before  ! 

147 


148  MEMORY     SELECTIONS . 

Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace!    Peace!  Orestes-like    I   breathe   this 

prayer ! 

Descend  with  broad- winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most 

fair, 
The  best  beloved  Night ! 

— Longfellow. 

THE   BUILDERS. 

All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
-And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fasten  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between ; 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  .      149 

Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 
Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen ; 

Make  the  house  where  God  may  dwell 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 

Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 

—  Longfellow. 


150  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

POLONIUS'  ADVICE  TO  LAERTES. 

Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue, 
Nor  any  un proportioned  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The    friends    thou   hast   and   their   adoption 

tried, 
Grapple   them    to   thy   soul    with   hooks    of 

steel ; 

But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of    each    new-hatched,    unfledged   comrade. 

Beware 

Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but  being  in, 
Bear  it  that  the  opposer  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give    every  man    thine    ear ;  but    few  thine 

voice  ; 
Take  each   man's   censure ;  but  reserve    thy 

judgment. 

Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy  ;  rich,  not  gaudy ; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man  ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank    and 

station, 
Are  of  a  most  select  and  generous  chief  in 

that. 

Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be  ; 
For  a  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend* 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS .  151 

And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all  — to  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Til'*"  can'st  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

— Shakespeare. 

THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;   for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their   sharpness,    ere   he    is    aware.     When 

thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And    breathless    darkness,    and   the    narrow 

house, 
Make   thee   to    shudder,   and   grow    sick    at 

heart  — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 


152  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course  ;   nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was   laid,  with  many 

tears v 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy    image.       Earth,    that    nourished    thee, 

shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
.Thine  individual  being  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The 

oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy 

mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  He  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with 

kings, 
The   powerful   of  the   earth  —  the  wise,   the 

good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  153 

Rock-ribbed   and  ancient  as  the    sun — the 

vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured 

round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.      Take  the  wings 
Of  morning — and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  —  the  dead  are 

there ; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 


1.54  MEMORY     SELECTIONS . 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employment,  and  shall 

come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long 

train 

Of*ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 

goes 
In  the  full  strength   of  years,  matron,  and 

maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 
So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall 

take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 

soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

— Bryant. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS .  1 5  5 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  morirch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear'sV  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm,. 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven  — 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free  ; 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke  ; 
And  bid  its  blending  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  clouds  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 


156  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ; 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave, 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frightened  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's    reeling  rack  ; 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 


MEMORY    SELECTIONS.  157 

And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  bat  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  I 
— Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

SPEECH  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF 
THE  NATIONAL  CEMETERY  AT 
GETTYSBURG. 

NOVEMBER  18,   1863. 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  upon  -this  continent  a  new 
nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated 
to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created 
equal.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil 
war,  testing  whether  that  nation,  or  any 
nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can 
long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle- 
field of  that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate 


158  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting  place 
for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting 
and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a 
larger  sense  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot 
consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground. 
The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  strug- 
gled here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our 
power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will 
little  note,  nor  long  remember  \vhat  we  say 
here ;  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did 
here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be 
dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work  which 
they  who  fought  here  have  thus  for  so  nobly 
advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us,  to  be  here 
dedicated  to  the  great  task  remaining  before 
us,  that  from  these  honored  dead  we  take 
increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which 
they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion ; 
that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead 
shall  not  have  died  in  vain  ;  that  this  nation, 
under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  free- 
dom, and  that  government  of  the  people,  by 
the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  *^t 
perish  from  the  earth. 

— President  Lincoln. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  159 

TO   A   SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  — 

Bird  thou  never  wert  — 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  : 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 
singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Ot  the  setting  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like   an  embodied  joy  whose    race   is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven , 

In  the  broad  daylight, 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy    shrill 
delight. 


160  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silvery  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel,  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaveo 
is  overflow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ! 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy    presence    showers    a   rain    ol 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 
not ; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace  tower, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  1  K.l 

Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower ;  . 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it 
from  the  view  • 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd* 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  over  was 

Joyous,  and  fresh  and  clear,  thy  music  doth 
surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 
I  have  never  heard 


1(^2  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine, 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  al) 

But  an  empty  vaunt  — 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want. 

What  object  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?     What  igno- 
rance of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyaace 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  ; 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satietr, 

Waking,  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  stioh  &  crystal 
stream  ? 


MEMORY*    SELECTIONS.  163 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our    sweetest  songs    are   those  thai    tell  of 
saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 

(  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come 
near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found* 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scornei   of  the 
ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,    as  I  am  lis- 
tening now. 

— Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


164  MEMOKY     SELECTIONS. 

THE  LAUNCHING   OP  THE  SHIP 

Then  the  Master, 

AVith  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  1  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts  —  she  moves — she  seems  to  fee 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

AVith  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo !  from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say, 
"Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 
With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  !  * 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  prest 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  I 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  165 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship ! 
Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer! 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goingc  be  I 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still 


Thou,  too,  sail  o%  O  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  I 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  I 


16ft  MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock; 
'Tis  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our    hearts    our    hopes,  our  prayers,   our 

tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  — are  all  with  thee  ! 

— Longfellow, 


RECESSIONAL. 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old  — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line  — 

Beneath  Whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 

The  captains  and  the  kings  depart , 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  167 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  — lest  we  forget ! 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away  — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre  ! 

Judge  of  the  nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild    tongues    that    have    not    Thee   in 
awe  — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the'  Law  - 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard  — 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
•  Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord  ! 

Amen. 
—  Kipling. 


168  MEMORY 


THE   LADDER   OF   ST.    AUGUSTINE. 

Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  tbou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame. 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less  ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  vjuth  ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill  ;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill  ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will. 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 


MEMOKY     SELECTIONS. 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  Boar; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 
When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 

Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

* 
The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 

Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 
But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 

Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 


170  MEMORY"     SELECTIONS. 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 

—  Longfellow. 

THE    CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS.* 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 

In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 
And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their 
streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 
And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where   its   dim  dreaming    life  was  wont  to 

dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irisedx ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  un- 
sealed ! 

*  Copyrighted  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  publishers." 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  171 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole    with    soft    step   its    shining    archway 

through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew 
the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  In 

thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a 
voice  that  sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 
Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  I 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vastj 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown    shell  by  life's   un- 
resting sea  ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


BRIEF  MEMORY  GEMS 
AND  PROVERBS. 


FIRST  AND  SECOND  GRADES. 

If  at  first  you  don't  succeed, 
Try,  try  again. 

Be  kind  and  be  gentle 
To  those  who  are  old, 

For  dearer  is  kindness 
And  better  taan  gold. 

Sing,  pretty  birds,  and  build  your  nests, 
The  fields  are  green,  the  skies  are  clear; 

Sing,  pretty  birds,  and  build  your  nests, 
The  world  is  glad  to  have  you  here. 

A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed 

If  a  task  is  once  begun , 
Never  leave  it  till  it's  done ; 
Be  the  labor  great  or  si 
Do  it  well  or  not  at  all. 


1  I  4  MEMORY     SELEC't  10 N 8 . 

Whatever  way  the  wind  doth  blow, 
Some  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so, 

So  blow  it  east,  or  blow  it  west, 

The  wind  that  blows  —  that  wind  is  best. 

Dare  to  do  right !  dare  to  be  true  ! 
For  you  have  a  work  no  other  can  do  ; 
Do  it  so  bravely,  so  kindly,  so  well, 
Angels  will  hasten  the  story  to  tell. 

To  do  to  others  as  I  would 
That  they  should  do  to  me 

Will  make  me  honest,  kind  and  good, 
As  children  ought  to  be. 

God  make  my  life  a  little  light, 

Within  the  world  to  glow  : 
A  little  flame  that  burneth  bright 

Wherever  I  may  go. 

Better  be  an  hour  too  early  than  a  minute 
too  late. 

"Help  one  another,"  the  snowflakes  said, 
As  they  cuddled  down  in  their  fleecy  bed, 

"  One  of  us  here  would  not  be  felt, 
One  of  us  here  would  quickly  melt ; 
But  I  '11  help  you  and  you  help  me, 
And  then  what  a  splendid  drift  there'll  be." 


MEMORY     SELECTION*.  175 

By-and-by  is  a  very  bad  boy, 
Shun  him  at  once  and  forever ; 

For  they  who  travel  with  By-and-by 
Soon  come  to  the  house  of  Never. 

Politeness  is  to  do  and  say 

The  kindest  things  in  the  kindest  way 

And  isn't  it,  my  boy  or  girl, 

The  wisest,  bravest  plan, 
Whatever  comes,  or  does  n't  come, 

To  do  the  best  you  can  ? 


THIRD  AND  FOURTH  GRADES. 

Beautiful  hands  are  those  that  do 
Work  that  is  earnest,  brave  and  true 
Moment  by  moment,  the  long  day  through. 

Kind  hearts  are  gardens, 

Kinds  thought  are  roots, 
Kind  words  are  blossoms, 

Kind  deeds  are  fruits ; 
Love  is  the  sweet  sunshine 

That  warms  into  life, 
For  only  in  darkness 

Grow  hatred  and  strife. 

Be  good,  dear  child,   and  let  who   will    bv 

clever ; 
Do  noble  deeds,  not  dream  them  all  day 

long; 

And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

—  Kingsley. 

Whene'er  a  task  is  set  for  you 
Don't  idly  sit  and  view  it, — 

Nor  be  content  to  wish  it  done ; 
Begin  at  once  and  do  it. 

176 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS .  Lit 

Look  up  and  not  down,  look  forward  and 
Aot  back,  look  out  and  not  in,  and  lend  a 
hand.  —  flale. 

This  world  is  not  so  bad  a  world 
As  some  would  like  to  make  it  ; 

Though  whether  good  or  whether  bad, 
Depends  on  how  we  take  it. 

-  M.   W.  Betik. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

—  I&ng fellow. 

Dar    to  be  true,  nothing  can  need  a  lie  ; 
A   fault     which    needs    it    most   grows    two 
thereby. 

—  George  Herbert. 

If  wisdom's  ways  you'd  wisely  seek, 
Five  things  observe  with  care,— 

O/'whom  you  speak,  to  whom  you  speak, 
And  how,  and  when,  and  where. 

Cowards  are  cruel,  but  the  brave 
Love  mercy,  and  delight  to  save, 

—  Gay. 


7£  MEMOKY     SELECTIONS. 

Oh,  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak ; 
The   face    you   wear,  the   thoughts   yoa 
bring, 

A  heart  may  heal  or  break. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, — > 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each ; 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, — 
Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 


FIFTH  AND  SIXTH  GRADES. 

Courit  that  day  lost  whose    low   descending 

sun 

Views  from  thy  hand  no  worthy  action  clone. 

—  Hobart. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  your  part ;   there  all  the  honor  lies. 

—  Pope. 

Success  does  not  consist  in  never  making 
blunders,  but  in  never  making  the  same  one 
a  second  time.  — Shaw. 

Whatever  is  worth  oing  »t  all  is  worth 
doing  well.  —  Chesterfield. 

One  cannot  always  be  a  hero,  but  one  can 
always  be  a  man.  —  Goethe. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight ; 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

—  Longfellow. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

If  there  is  a  virtue  in  the  world  at  which 
we  should  always  aim,  it  is  cheerfulness. 
,  —  Bulwer  Lytton. 

'T  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view 
And  clothes  the  mountain  with  its  azure  hue. 

—  Campbell. 

Give  fools  their  gold  and  knaves  their  power, 
Let  fortune's  bubble  rise  and  fall ; 

Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 
Or  plants  a  tree  i?  more  than  all. 

—  WTiittier. 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 
Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

—  Longfellow. 

Too  low  they  build  who  build  beneath  the 
stars.  —  Young. 

Errors,  like  straws  upon  the  surface  flow  ; 
He  who    would    seek   for  pearls  must    dive 
below. 

—  Dry  den. ~ 

The  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee. 

—  Whittier. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  181 

All  that's  great  and  good  is  done 
Just  by  patient  trying. 

—  Phoebe  Oary. 

No  star  is  lost  we  ever  once  have  seen : 
We  always  may  be  what  we  might  have  been. 
—  Adelaide  Proctor. 

Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  golden  room 
we  find.  — Longfellow. 

Too  much  of  joy  is  sorrowful, 
So  cares  must  needs  abound, 

The  vine  that  bears  too  many  flowers 
Will  trail  upon  the  ground. 

—  Alice  Go.ry. 

Life    is    too    short    for    aught    but    high 
endeavor.  — Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

To  climb  steep  hills  requires  slow  pace  at 
first.  —  Shakespeare. 

Cloud  and  sun  together  make  the  year ; 
Without    some    storms    no     rainbow    could 
appear.  — Alice  Cary. 

The    noblest   service    comes    from    nameless 

hands, 

And  the  best  servant  does  his  work  unseen. 
—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


182  MEMORY     SELECTIOHS. 

He  who  seeks  to  pluck  the  stars 
Will  lose  the  jewels  at  his  feet. 

—  Phoebe  Gary. 

For  he  who  is  honest  is  noble, 
Whatever  his  fortunes  or  birth. 

—  Alice  Gary. 

There  ?s  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 

No  endeavor  is  in  vain. 

Its  reward  is  in  the  doing ; 
And  the  rapture  of  pursuing 

Is  the  prize  the  vanquished  gain. 
—  Longfellow. 

Press  on  !  if  once  and  twice  thy  feet 
Slip  back  and  stumble,  harder  try. 

—  Benjamin. 

Dare  to  do  right ;  dare  to  be  true  ; 

The  failings  of  others  can  never  save  you ;  * 

Stand  by  your  conscience,  your  honor,  your 

faith  — 
Stand  like  a  hero,  and  battle  till  death  ! 

He  that  is  slow  to  anger  is  better  than  the 
mighty;  and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than 
he  that  taketh  a  citv.  —  Bible. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  183 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

—  Coleridge. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token, 
Reaching  heaven,  but  one  by  one 

Take  them  ;  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 

—  A.  A.  Proctor. 

There  is  a  lesson  in  each  flower, 
A  story  in  each  stream  and  bower ; 
On  every  herb  on  which  we  tread, 
Are  written  words  which,  rightly  read, 
Will  lead  us  from  earth's  fragrant  sod 
To  hope  and  holiness  and  God. 

Oh,  many  a  shaft  at  random  sent, 
Finds  mark  the  archer  little  meant ! 
And  many  a  word  at  random  spoken, 
May  soothe,  or  wound,  a  heart  that's  broken, 

—  Scott. 


SEVENTH  AND  EIGHTH  GRADES. 

To  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  clay, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

—  Shakespeare. 

Be  noble  !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping  but  never  dead, 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own. 

—  LowelL 

What  must  of  necessity  be  done,  you  can 
always  find  out  how  to  do.          — Ruskin. 

He  fails  not  who  makes  truth  his  cause, 
Nor  bends  to  win  the  crowd's  applause, 
He  fails  not  —  he  who  stakes  his  all 
Upon  the  right  and  dares  to  fall. 

—  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

—  Longfellow. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS. 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! . 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 
—  Longfellow . 

Be  just  and  fear  not ;  let  all  the  ends  thou 
aime.st  at,  be  thy  country's,  thy  God's,  and 
truth's.  —  Shakespeare. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen  — 
The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !  n 

—  Whittier. 

Truth  crushed  to  earth  shall  rise  again  ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  : 
But  error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain. 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

—  Bryant. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower,  — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all — and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

—  Tennyson. 

Life  is  the  best  possible  thing  we  can 
make  of  it.  —  Curd's. 


186  MEMORY     SELECTIONS . 

Without  a  sign    his    sword    the    brave    man 

draws, 

And  asks  no  omen  but  his  country's  cause. 

—  Pope. 

There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will. 

—  Shakespeare. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be  :  that  is  the  question  : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings    and    arrows    of  outrageous    for- 
tune, 

Or  to  take  up  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles , 
And  by  opposing,  end  them? 

—  Shakespeare. 

Whatever  makes  men  good  Christians, 
makes  them  good  citizens. 

—  Webster. 

Our  grand  business  is,  not  to  see  what  lies 
dimly  at  a  distance,  but  to  do  what  lies 
clearly  at  hand. 

—  Thomas  Carlyle. 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for 
all,  with  firmness  in  the  riojht  as  God  gives 
us  to  see  the  riofht. 

—  Lincoln. 


MEMORY     SELECTIONS.  187 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  5 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

—  Gray. 

POOR  RICHARD'S   SAYINGS. 

God  helps  them  that  help  themselves. 
The  sleeping  fox  catches  no  poultry. 

What  we  call  time  enough  always  proves 
little  enough. 

Sloth  makes  all  things  difficult,  but  indus- 
try all  easy. 

Drive  thy  business,  let  not  that  drive  thee. 

Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise,  makes  a 
man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise. 

Industry  needs  not  wish. 

He  that  lives  upon  hope  will  die  fasting. 

He  that  hath  a  trade  hath  an  estate,  and 
he  that  hath  a  calling  hath  an  office  of  profit 
and  honor. 

Have  you  somewhat  to  do  to-morrow,  do 

it  to-day. 


188  MEMORY    SELECTIONS. 

God  gives  all  things  to  industry :  then 
plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep,  and  you 
will  have  corn  to  sell  and  to  keep. 

Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep 
thee. 

If  you  would  have  your  business  done,  no  ; 
*f  not,  send. 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive. 

Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets  put 
out  the  kitchen  fire. 

For  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ;  for 
//ant  of  a  shoe  the  horse  was  lost ;  and  for 
want  of  a  horse  the  rider  was  lost. 

Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle. 

Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat  them. 

Wise  men  learn  by  others'  harms,  fools 
scarcely  by  their  own. 

When  the  well  is  dry  they  know  the  worth 
of  water. 

Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  want,  and  a 
great  deal  more  saucy. 


MEMORY   SELECTIONS.  189 

A  little  neglect  may  breed  great  mischief. 

Vessels  large  may  venture  more, 

But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore. 

What  is  a  butterfly  ?  at  best 
He's  but  a  caterpillar  drest ; 
The  gaudy  fop's  his  picture  just. 

For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may. 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day. 

Rather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in 
debt. 

Get  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get,  hold, 
Tis  the  stone  that  will   turn  all   your  lead 
into  gold. 

Experience  keeps  a  dear  school ;  but  fools 
will  learn  in  no  other,  and  scarce  in  that ; 
for  it  is  true  we  may  give  advice,  but  we 
cannot  give  conduct. 

The  key,  often  used,  is  always  bright. 

But  dost  thou  love  life  ?  then  do  not  waste 
time,  for  that's  the  stuff  life  is  made  of. 

Lost  time  is  never  found  again. 
There  are  no  gains  without  pains. 


M  EMORY     SELECTIONS  . 


At  the  workingman's  house  hunger  looks 
in,  but  dares  not  enter. 

Diligence  is  the  mother  of  good  luck. 
The  cat  in  gloves  catches  no  mice. 

By  industry    and  patience  the  mouse    ate 
into  the  cable. 

Since  thou  art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw 
not  away  an  hour. 

A  workingman  on  his  legs  is  higher  than  a 
gentleman  on  his  knees. 

It  is  folly  for  the  frog  to  swell  in  order  to 
equal  the  ox. 

It  is  easier  to  build  two  chimneys  than  to 
keep  one  in  fuel. 

A  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted. 

Troubles  spring  from  idleness,  and  grievous 
toils  from  needless  ease. 

If  you  would  be  wealthy  think  of  saving 
as  well  as  of  getting. 


SCOTT.  Pmp«r    Cloth 

M  ARM  ION. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes  .         .        .»•        .»* 

LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  notei .  .        .10        .«g 

LAMB 
TALES  FROM  SHAKESPEARE. 

By  CHARLES  and  MARY  LAMB.    Vol.  I.    .        .        .>•        .»f 

TALES  FROM  SHAKESPEARE. 

By  CHARLES  and  MARY  LAMB.    Vol.  II. .        .        .M        .•§ 

PLUTARCH  ss    WES 

ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT  AND  JULIUS  '^VBSAR      •>•      -n 
PERICLES  AND   FABIUS  MAXIMUS,  ,>«wrnt- 

THENES    AND   ClCERO  .»»         .n 

ALCIBIADES  AND  CORIOLANUS,  ARISTIDIC&  AND 

CATO  THE  CENSOR  •••      «H 

ADDISON 
SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLRY. K>      .»* 

BYRON 
CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE  .••      -•• 

JOHNSON'S  LIVES  OF  THR  PORTS 

ADDISON,  SAVAGE,  SWIFT. 

By  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.     Edited  by  Prof.  H. 

MORLBY      .        .-— -    .     ; ••        .«5 

GAY,  THOMPSON,  YOUNG,  %AY,  ETC. 

By  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. »   Edited  by  Prof.  N. 

MORLBY      ...  i*        .*§ 

WALLER,  MILTON,  COWLEY. 

With  introduction  by  Prof.  H.  MORLBY  .M        J* 

PRIOR,  GONGREVE,  BLACKMORE,  POPE. 

With  introduction i«        .•$ 

BUTLER,  DENHAM,  DRYDEN,  ROSCOMMON, 
SPRATT,  DORSET,  ROCHESTER,  OTWAY       -      •«•      ••* 


EDUCATIONAL   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
Boston  New  York  Chicago  3*n 


TEN  CENT  CLASSICS. 

(  Texts  th*t  *rt  Accurate  **4  Aufanfa.) 

P*f*r    CW* 

LONGFELLOW'S  HIAWATHA. 

With  notes to        ,s| 

LONGFELLOW'S  EVANGELIC. 

Edited,  with  introducttoi^od  note*  •        •        .»o        .flf 

SOUTHEY'S  LIFE  OP  NELSON. 

Edited  by  Prof.  HBNRY  MORLBY       .        .        .        .to        .*§ 

JOHNSON'S  RASSKLAS,  THE  PRINCE  or 
ABYSSINIA. 

Edited  by  Prof .  HBNRY  MORLBY      .        .        .        .M>        .09 

DEFOE'S  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 

Edited  for  use  in. schools  .        .  •        .*»        .of 

ASCHAM'S  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Edited  by  Prof   HBNRY  MORLBY       .  .        .so         0f 

DICKENS'  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEAJTTH. 

For  Supplementary  Reading     ...»        .10        .Of 

DICKENS'  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

With  sketch  of  Dickens'  life «»        .«f 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

With  notes to        .t§ 

BLACK  BEAUTY. 

By  ANNA  SBWBLL.    Illustrated        ....!*.•§ 

GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS. 

'      Voyage  to  Lilliput I*       *9f 

DE  QUINCEY'S  RFVOLT  OF  THE  TARTARS. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  not**  .        •        •        .fs>        .«§ 

CARLYLK'S  ESSAY  ON  BURNS. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  not** .        .        *        .t*        49 

TENKTSON'S  PRINCESS. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes .        .         .        .to        .4f 

BURKE'S  SPEECH  ON  CONCILIATION. 

Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes .        .        .        .«D        .«f 

FOFB'S  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Edited,  with  introduction  a»d  uet«e,  by  M .  A. 

EATOB.A.  B .*o        49 

MILTON 

VAJUDISE  LOST.     Book  I.  and  II. 

K4tt«4,  wit*  introduction  a»d  B*«**  ...        4*)       4$ 

DRYDEH 
FAJLAMOW  AND  ARCITE. 

Kditad,  with-ktr*d««ti**  and  ••***,  by  M   A- 

EATON,  A.  B *•       4f 


YA  04336 


